Papaya Stains on My Sneakers

I was supposed to be running – like, actually clocking miles for the cross-country meet that could determine whether I made varsity or spent another season rotting in JV purgatory. Instead, I was staring at my **goldfish**, Bubbles, who'd been floating sideways for three days.

"He's fine," I told myself, even though Bubbles looked like he'd given up on whatever dream fish have. Sort of like how I'd given up on actually getting good at running, but whatever.

My mom burst into my room without knocking, because privacy is apparently a concept she abandoned in 2018. She placed a bowl of sliced **papaya** on my desk like it was some kind of peace offering.

"You need vitamin C," she said, already not-so-subtly sliding toward her real point. "And these **vitamin** supplements I ordered – they're supposed to help with focus. You know, for school and... running."

I eyed the papaya suspiciously. Since when did we eat papaya? Since when did my mom care about my focus, unless it was to remind me that my GPA would never be good enough for the colleges she'd already mentally committed me to?

"I'm good, Mom."

"Maya, I just want you to have options. Not everyone can be a professional athlete."

"I'm literally not even good at running," I said, even though it stung to admit it. "And I'm definitely not trying to go pro. I just want to make varsity so Coach Miller stops looking at me like I'm wasting his time."

She sighed, that disappointed-but-trying-not-to-look-disappointed sigh I'd become an expert at decoding. "Just try the papaya, okay?"

Later that night, I laced up my running shoes and slipped out the door. Running was the only time my brain stopped sounding like everyone else's expectations. The problem was, I actually hated it. Every step felt like my lungs were staging a protest against my body.

I kept running anyway, past the high school, past the neon sign of the 7-Eleven where Tyler worked – Tyler, who'd smiled at me yesterday like maybe I wasn't invisible, and now I couldn't stop thinking about it even though that was pathetic and I knew it.

My phone buzzed. A text from Tyler: *Saw you running. You looked determined. Or in pain. Hard to tell.*

I laughed out loud, alone in the dark, and typed back: *Both. Definitely both.*

When I got home, Bubbles was finally gone. I felt weirdly sad, which was dumb because he was a fish and we'd known each other for like two months. But it felt like something ending, and also like something starting. Something where I got to decide what came next.

I ate the papaya. It wasn't terrible.

And the next morning, when my mom asked if I wanted to go for a run together, I said yes. Not because I suddenly loved it or because I wanted to make varsity or impress Tyler. But because sometimes you have to keep moving, even when you're not sure where you're going. Even when it hurts. Especially then.