Orange Laces & Last Texts

Maya's breathing came in ragged bursts, her lungs burning as she rounded the track's final curve. The fluorescent orange laces on her Nikes blurred against the red rubber—a birthday gift from her mom that felt like a joke now. **Running** had always been her escape, the one place where overthinking couldn't catch up. But today, even her legs couldn't outrun what waited in her pocket.

Her **iPhone** buzzed against her hip, lighting up with another notification from the group chat that had been blowing up all afternoon. MAYA WE NEED TO DECIDE ON HOMECOMING GROUP PICS ASAP. READ. ARE YOU COMING OR NAH.

She slowed to a walk, chest heaving, and fished the phone from her running shorts. Thirteen unread messages. Two missed calls from Jasmine, who'd been her best friend since before middle school, before everything got weird and complicated and people started caring about who sat with who at lunch and who posted what on their story.

Maya stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She could say she was sick. Say she had track practice. Say anything except the truth: that she'd rather stay home with her dad, who'd been working double shifts since the divorce, eating microwaved pizza and watching bad movies together.

"Hey!"

She jumped. It was Leo from the boys' team, jogging toward her with a Tupperware container. "My mom made way too many of those weird orange slices she puts in celery. You want? They're actually not bad."

Maya blinked. Leo, the quiet sophomore who sat behind her in English and drew cartoons in the margins of his worksheets. Leo, whose family ran the Mexican restaurant downtown and always gave her extra chips when she picked up takeout.

"Sure," she said, and he handed her a few slices wrapped in a napkin. The orange juice was sharp and sweet, unexpected and weirdly perfect.

"You good?" Leo asked. "You looked stressed."

Maya looked at her phone, then back at him. Something in his face—no judgment, no pressure—made the truth tumble out. "Homcoming. Everyone's asking if I'm going and I just... don't want to. Is that weird?"

Leo shrugged. "Nah. I'm not going either. My abuela says it's just expensive awkward dancing."

Maya laughed, and it felt like the first real breath she'd taken all day. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Hey," Leo said, backing away toward the field. "If you're not going, you want to grab food instead? My dad makes these carnitas that'll change your life."

Maya's phone buzzed again. Another notification. Another demand. She slipped it into her pocket without looking.

"Yeah," she said, grinning. "Yeah, I'd love that."