Palm Reader's Apprentice

I became a self-appointed social media spy at 2 AM when insomnia collided with curiosity. There it was: a photo of my ex-best friend looking flawless at a party I wasn't invited to. Her hair cascaded in perfect beach waves that took me three hours and a burnt forehead to attempt once. Never again.

"Vitamin D deficiency," my mom had diagnosed earlier that evening, pointing at my melancholy posture like it was a medical condition. "You need sunshine, Maya. Or at least a supplement."

But what I actually needed was to stop refreshing Emma's profile. We'd been inseparable since seventh grade, until high school hit and she got upgraded to the popular table while I remained comfortably uncool in the library club. The drift happened gradually—fewer texts, shorter replies, eventual silence.

The next day at lunch, I sat across from Leo, who had the tendency to read palms during calculus.

"Let me see," he said, gesturing for my hand. His own palm was surprisingly calloused from guitar playing.

I hesitated, then extended my hand. He traced the lines with clinical precision.

"You're overthinking again," Leo said, not looking up. "Your head line is all twisted up."

"Can you see betrayal in there too?" I asked, only half-joking.

He paused. "I see that you're still carrying stuff. But also that you're ready to let it go."

Emma walked by then, laughing with her new friends. She didn't even look my way. Something in me untwisted.

"You know what," I said, pulling my hand back. "I think I need to start taking those vitamins my mom's been pushing."

Leo grinned. "And maybe delete some apps."

"Maybe," I said. "But first, teach me that palm-reading stuff. It's way more practical than algebra."