Orange Lightning Afternoon

I sat alone in the cafeteria, poking at the limp spinach on my tray.

My best friend since kindergarten was across the room, laughing with Sarah and Marcus from the cross country team. I couldn't hear her words, but I didn't need to. The way she tilted her head, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled—these were things I'd witnessed a thousand times. Now she was showing them to people I'd never met.

I opened Instagram and started scrolling. It was pathetic, I knew, but I couldn't stop. I was basically a social media stalker at this point. Call me what you wanted—spy, creep, obsessed friend. I just missed her.

The spinach still sat untouched on my plastic tray. I'd been vegetarian for three months now. Some statement about climate change that nobody except Maya had actually cared about. Now even Maya didn't care.

"Hey."

I jumped. Maya stood above me, holding something in her hand.

"Hi," I managed.

She sat down without waiting for an invitation. Her backpack thudded against the chair. Outside, thunder rumbled, low and distant.

"You're not eating," she said.

"Not hungry."

"You've been sitting here alone every day this week."

"I've been busy."

"With what?" She was peeling an orange now, her fingers working at the skin. "Stalking my Instagram? I saw you viewing my stories. Every single one."

Heat rushed to my face. "I wasn't—"

"It's fine." She ripped off a section of peel. Citrus scent filled the air between us. "I've been checking yours too."

The cafeteria went silent as lightning flashed outside, brilliant and sudden. For a split second, everything was white—then darkness again.

"Sarah and Marcus are cool," I said into the quiet. "I get it."

Maya popped an orange segment into her mouth. Juice glistened on her lips. "They're not you, though. They don't know about the time we got lost in the woods behind your house and found that abandoned car. They don't know about your obsession with vintage maps or how you can identify any bird by its call."

"They don't know I eat spinach every day even though I hate it," I said.

"Nobody knows that," Maya said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "Why do you do it?"

"Because I said I would. Because sometimes things are worth doing even when they suck."

She nodded like she understood. "Cross country sucks, by the way. Just so you know."

"Then why'd you join?"

"Because sometimes you do things even when they suck."

The cafeteria lights flickered back on. I looked at Maya, really looked at her, for the first time in weeks. She was still peeling her orange, methodical and careful, like she had all the time in the world.

"Want some?" she asked, holding out a slice.

I took it. It burst on my tongue—sweet, tart, unmistakably alive.

"Come sit with us tomorrow," she said. "Sarah wants to ask you about that abandoned car. She's into creepy stuff."

"Creepy stuff?" I echoed.

"She collects urban exploration videos. You'd like her."

Outside, another flash of lightning illuminated the entire cafeteria. This time I saw it clearly: the way Maya's eyes found mine across the table, the way she was waiting, patient and orange-stained and absolutely present.

"I'll be there," I said.

And for the first time in weeks, the spinach on my tray didn't seem so heavy after all.