Orange Soda Confessions

Max's legs burned as he rounded the track again, lungs screaming like they always did during sixth period PE. Coach Miller called it 'character building.' Max called it socially sanctioned torture. The best part? The water fountain inside the gym—cold water hitting a throat that felt like sandpaper.

But today, something caught his eye: new girl, Chloe, sitting on the bleachers in an oversized orange hoodie that swallowed her frame completely. Bright orange. Like, construction worker orange. Who wore that voluntarily?

Max had developed this unfortunate habit lately—spying, basically. Not like creepy spying, but observation. Instagram lurking at 2 AM. Noticing who sat with whom at lunch. The social ecosystem of Northwood High had become his personal nature documentary, and he was both narrator and subject.

He slowed to a walk, chest heaving, and somehow ended up near the bleachers. Casual. Totally natural.

'Hey,' he managed, already regretting everything. 'Nice hoodie.'

Chloe looked up, hair in two imperfect space buns. 'Thanks. My little brother picked it out. He's seven. He said I needed more color in my 'emo vampire wardrobe.'

Max laughed. Actual laugh, not the fake one he used when Trey made jokes that weren't funny.

'I'm Max.'

'Chloe.' She tilted her head. 'You're always running. I see you. Sometimes with the cross country team, sometimes just—running. Like, away from something?'

The words hit him like a physical thing. Because wasn't he always running? From conversations that got too real. From questions about why he never hung out anymore. From the version of himself that used to have things to say.

'Maybe,' he said. 'Or toward something. Haven't figured out which yet.'

Chloe nodded like this made complete sense. She reached into her backpack and pulled out an orange soda—of course—offering it to him.

'Sit. Take a break from whatever you're running from or toward. No judgment.'

Max sat. The orange metal can was cold against his palm, condensation dripping like the sweat down his back. For the first time in months, he wasn't performing. Not for Coach, not for Trey, not for the invisible audience he'd invented in his head.

'This orange soda is probably terrible for me,' he said.

Chloe grinned. 'Live dangerously, Max.'

He cracked it open. The carbonation burned—good burned, like the good kind of hurt.

He wasn't sure what he'd been so afraid of. Turns out, you stop running when you find someone worth walking with.