Goldfish & Running Shoes

My palms were sweating so much I could barely grip the starting line. Again. Everyone else looked calm, stretching like they actually knew what they were doing, while I was busy having a full-on existential crisis about why I'd thought joining the cross-country team was a good idea.

"You okay?" Marcus asked from beside me. He was the kind of guy who made everything look effortless—running, being popular, existing without overthinking every single breath.

"Can't bear it," I muttered, then instantly wanted to die. "I mean, I'm good. Just nervous."

Marcus laughed. "You'll be fine. You've been training like crazy."

Had I? Sort of. Unless you counted overthinking everything as cardio, then I was basically an Olympic athlete.

The gun went off.

I started running, my brain supplying a highlight reel of my most embarrassing moments: that time I choked on spinach at lunch while trying to look sophisticated for Marcus, when my pet goldfish Bubbles died the day before my geometry final and I sobbed through the entire exam, and every single conversation I'd ever had where I said something stupid.

But then something weird happened. Around mile two, the panic faded. My legs found a rhythm. The trees blurred past, golden light filtering through leaves. For the first time all day, my brain shut up. No overthinking, no second-guessing. Just running.

I finished. Not first, not last, but somewhere in the middle—perfectly average, perfectly me.

Marcus was waiting at the finish line, high-fiving me. "See? You crushed it."

"I actually didn't hate it," I admitted, breathing hard.

"Told you," he said, then paused. "Hey, you want to grab food? My treat."

I looked down at my sweaty palms and grass-stained shirt. Usually, I would've made some excuse about needing to study or feed my nonexistent pets. But something about today—about finishing something I started, about not letting the anxiety win—made me feel different.

"Yeah," I said, and for the first time, I actually meant it. "Yeah, I'd like that."