Lightning on Skin

The party was already dead when Maya dragged me toward the girl with the tarot cards in the corner. My hair was frizzing from the humidity, and I'd already said no twice, but Maya wasn't taking no for an-freaking-ther answer.

"She's supposed to be legit," Maya whispered, practically vibrating. "My friend's cousin saw her last month and she literally predicted her breakup before it happened."

"Your friend's cousin also thinks astrology explains why she failed algebra," I said, but I still let Maya push me into the folding chair.

The girl—Chloe, her name tag said—didn't look like some mystic. She looked like she belonged in AP Chem, with her oversized hoodie and hair pulled back in a messy knot. But when she took my hand, her palm was warm against mine, and something stupid happened to my breathing.

"You're anxious about something," Chloe said, her voice quiet but steady. "Not the party. Something bigger."

I almost pulled back. But then lightning flashed outside the basement windows, throwing everything into harsh white light, and I saw something in her expression that made me stay.

"It's stupid," I mumbled. "I'm supposed to hear from that summer program tomorrow. The arts one."

Chloe's fingers traced the lines on my palm like she was reading braille. "And you think you need it to be someone."

I stared at her. "What?"

"You think this program defines you," she said, not looking up. "But you're already someone. You don't need external validation to prove your worth." She paused, her thumb pressing against my heart line. "And you're worried about what your friends will think if you don't get in."

I laughed bitterly. "You can read that in my palm? Pretty sure anyone could guess that."

"No," Chloe said, finally meeting my eyes. "I can read it because you're still holding Maya's jacket from when you came in, and you keep checking your phone even though she's literally three feet away. You're terrified of losing people if you're not 'enough.'"

The basement went silent. Another flash of lightning, closer this time.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, you're good."

"I never said I was good," Chloe said, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "I just know what it looks like to be seventeen and think everything's ending before it's really begun."

I didn't get into the program. I cried for three hours. But the next day, I found Chloe's Instagram in my DMs, and we got boba, and she told me she'd been reading palms since middle school because her grandmother taught her that sometimes people just need someone to see them.

Sometimes the real magic isn't in cards or predictions. It's in someone taking your hand and saying, I see you, and you're going to be okay.