Laps After Last Bell

The pool deck smelled like chlorine and desperation, which honestly summed up my junior year. I was doing laps—swimming until my arms felt like jelly—trying to burn off the embarrassment from yesterday's lunch incident.

My phone buzzed on the bench. Jenna: u coming to jason's or what?? 🙄

I'd told everyone I was sick, but really I'd been avoiding Jason's party since Wednesday. The vitamin gummies my mom kept pushing weren't helping my stress—they were just making my pee turn neon orange, which was exactly the kind of fun fact I needed to share with literally no one.

"You're always running away," Caleb had said when he caught me leaving practice early on Tuesday. He wasn't wrong. I ran from confrontation, from hard conversations, from admitting that maybe I didn't want to be on the swim team anymore.

My phone lit up again. Caleb: dw about jason's. we're getting goldfish after practice. u down?

Goldfish. The snack. Obviously.

But there it was—that tiny gesture that meant he knew I'd bailed on the party for reasons that had nothing to do with being sick. He knew I needed an out, and he'd given me one without making it weird.

I pulled myself out of the pool, water streaming off me like I was washing away the last three days of overthinking. My arms were tired, but for the first time all week, my chest felt light.

me: absolutely. i'm starving.

Some things are worth running from. But goldfish and a friend who gets it? Those are worth swimming toward.