Ghost Runner

The track stretched before me like a sentence I didn't want to finish, all rubber and heat and the smell of hot asphalt. Coach Martinez's voice echoed across the surface, practically vibrating with enthusiasm I couldn't match.

*Let's go, Torres! Running! Not jogging!*

Yeah, sure. My legs were definitely moving, but my head was stuck fifteen minutes ago—stuck on what Jasmine had posted.

Some best friend.

The screenshot from my private Instagram story—me, at 2 AM, admitting I was thinking about quitting track—was now live on her feed for all 847 of her followers to see. Caption: *LOL someone's being dramatic again 💅*

My iPhone burned in my pocket like a hot coal, but I couldn't stop checking it. The notifications kept piling up. Everyone had something to say.

*ur quitting track???*

*damn that's wild*

*lmao not u having a meltdown at 2am*

The worst part wasn't even the post. It was that Jasmine had been in my room when I sent that story. We'd been lying on my floor, listening to her playlist, eating those gummy worms that taste like disappointment. I'd told her things I hadn't told anyone. About how I'd been running from my own life since seventh grade, how track wasn't my dream—it was my mom's. How I secretly loved writing more than anything but was too scared to admit it.

And she'd still posted that screenshot.

*Focus, Torres!* Coach yelled. *You've got regionals in three weeks!*

Regionals. Right. The thing my mom had already framed pictures of me winning, even though I hadn't even qualified yet.

My phone buzzed again.

Probably Jasmine with some half-assed apology. Or the group chat blowing up. Or—

*You good?*

The text was from Marcus, that quiet guy from my English class who always sat in the back row and wrote in this beat-up notebook he carried everywhere. The one I'd caught looking at me like, actually looking at me, not just glancing past my shoulder.

I slowed to a walk, chest heaving, and pulled out my phone. The screen was cracked (thanks, my clumsy ass dropped it last week skating) but the message was clear.

*Just saw Jasmine's post. That was messed up.*

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, thoughts racing faster than I ever had on this track. Part of me wanted to vent, spill everything about how I'd been running—literally and metaphorically—away from who I actually was. How exhausting it was, performing this version of myself that everyone expected.

*Yeah,* I typed, the letters blurring slightly. *Not really good.*

*Want to talk about it?*

The invitation hung there in the silence between us. Simple. No pressure. No judgment. Just... open.

Something shifted in my chest, like taking a deep breath after holding it way too long. The track was suddenly too quiet, too empty, too full of expectations that weren't mine.

Maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to keep running. Not from this conversation. Not from my truth. Not from myself.

I deleted Jasmine's contact. Then I typed back to Marcus, my fingers actually steady for the first time all day.

*Yeah. I do.*

*After practice?*

*After practice.*

The first step toward something real felt terrifying. But also? Kind of like crossing a finish line I didn't even know I'd been running toward my whole life.