Palm Reader's Prophecy

Maya was practically running toward the school gym, her Adidas hitting the pavement in a rhythm that matched her racing heart. Homecoming week, and she was finally going to talk to Zara—the girl who'd been sitting behind her in AP Bio since September, doodling tiny galaxies on the corners of her notebook.

"You're literally vibrating," said Jordan, her best friend since seventh grade, adjusting their glitter eyeshadow in the locker mirror. "Just breathe. You got this."

The gym was transformed into a carnival, and there she was. Zara. Behind a table draped in fake velvet, wearing a bandana that said "PALM READER" in rhinestones.

"Step right up," Zara called out, grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing. "Your future awaits."

Maya's palms were sweating so much she had to wipe them on her denim skirt before stepping forward. This wasn't how she'd planned it—she'd practiced a whole speech about how she liked Zara's space doodles and wanted to study together—but somehow she found herself sitting across from her crush, extending her hand.

Zara's touch was electric. Like, actual static electric, because the gym's air conditioning was working overtime, but still.

"Interesting," Zara murmured, tracing the lines on Maya's palm with surprisingly gentle fingers. "You're a runner?"

Maya blinked. "Track star. Since freshman year."

"I could tell." Zara looked up, her dark eyes meeting Maya's with an intensity that made her stomach do that flippy thing it did during the 400-meter dash. "You have this line here—" she traced a path across Maya's palm "—means you're always moving forward. Fast. Sometimes too fast."

The gym lights flickered. Outside, actual lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating everything in purple-white flashes.

"But this other line," Zara continued, her thumb pressing into Maya's palm like she was reading Braille, "this one says you're about to stop running. Toward something good."

Then Zara winked.

Maya's brain short-circuited. Was this real? Was Zara flirting back? The air between them felt charged, like the moment before a storm when the pressure drops and everything feels possible.

"So," Zara said, still holding Maya's hand, "future track star, want to get milkshakes after the game tomorrow? I could tell you more about your fate."

Maya's face was on fire, but for the first time, she didn't want to run. "I'd like that," she managed, realizing some prophecies don't need magic—just the right person to read them.