Orange Hair, Goldfish Truths

I'd been spying on Jordan's Instagram for forty-five minutes when my mom yelled that my hair was turning orange.

"Maya! That wasn't supposed to happen!"

Great. My rebellion had gone wrong. Again.

I locked my phone and stumbled to the mirror. My hair wasn't just orange — it was RADIOACTIVE orange. Like, nuclear accident orange. My brand-new punk aesthetic was now looking more like I'd gotten into a fight with a bag of Cheetos.

But honestly? The hair disaster was the least of my problems.

See, Jordan and I used to be best friends. Like, share-everything, finish-each-other's-sentences best friends. Until freshman year when they joined the popular crowd and I stayed... me. Now I spent way too much time spying on their life through social media, watching them live the version of existence I thought we were supposed to have together.

I started running last month. Like, actually running — not running away from my problems (though I was doing plenty of that too). Coach said I had potential. Potential for what, I wasn't sure. But it felt good to move, to push my body until my lungs burned and I couldn't think about how Jordan looked happy without me.

"Maya, honey," my mom said from the hallway. "The dye box said 'warm caramel.' This is... not that."

"It's fine," I called back, but it wasn't fine. Nothing was fine.

The worst part? The goldfish situation.

Jordan had won that goldfish for me at the spring carnival last year. We'd spent the whole day together, and they'd played like twenty games trying to win me something. When they finally handed me that plastic bag with the tiny fish swimming inside, they'd said, "This represents our friendship. Unbreakable."

Spoiler: It was very breakable.

But the goldfish was still alive. His name was Gerald (I know, I know) and he was currently swimming in his bowl on my desk, judging me with his fishy eyes, a constant reminder of the friendship I'd ruined.

My phone buzzed. A DM.

From Jordan.

My heart did this weird fluttery thing as I opened it. A photo of Jordan holding a goldfish.

"Won another one at the carnival today," the message said. "Thought of you. Also, I heard you joined track. That's awesome, Maya."

I stared at the screen. They'd thought of me? They'd heard about me running?

"Also," the next message continued, "I've been lowkey spying on your Instagram too. Your hair looks sick. Did you dye it orange on purpose?"

I laughed out loud. They thought I did this on purpose.

"Totally on purpose," I typed back. "It's a whole aesthetic."

"Cool," Jordan wrote. "Hey, Gerald 2.0 needs a friend. Want to come over later? We can talk about track and stuff."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was it. The moment I could stop spying from the sidelines and actually live again.

"I'd love that," I wrote.

And just like that, I wasn't running away anymore. I was running toward something.