Papaya Sunrise

The cross-country team was doing hill repeats again, which was basically my personal definition of torture. My calves burned as I kept running, Coach Miller's whistle shrilling in my ears like a angry bird.

"You call that hustle, Chen?" someone yelled.

I didn't look back. Freshman year was hard enough without being the slowest guy on varsity.

After practice, I sat on the locker room bench, pulling a mushy papaya from my gym bag. Mom had packed it, convinced the "exotic fruit" would make me faster. Right. I took a bite anyway, juice dripping down my chin like I was some kind of messy toddler.

"Yo, what is THAT?"

Trevor, the senior captain, stood there grinning. Great.

"It's a... papaya," I mumbled, wiping my face with my sleeve.

"Ain't that fancy." He didn't make fun of me, though. Just sat down and started untying his own shoes. "My grandma eats that stuff. Says it helps with inflammation."

"Your grandma seems smart."

"She's literally pre-med at Stanford." Trevor laughed. "Hey, you coming to the meet on Saturday? We're doing the Bear Creek course. Word is there's actually a bear sighting there every couple years."

"Are you serious?"

"Nah." He nudged my shoulder. "But don't tell the freshmen. Let them believe."

I smiled. For the first time all season, the knot in my chest loosened.

Saturday came with rain—a proper downpour that had everyone huddled under the team tent, staying dry-ish. I checked my phone. Maya had finally texted back: "sorry cant make it 2day :(("

My stomach dropped. I'd spent all week psyching myself up to ask her to homecoming, and now she wasn't even coming to the meet? Classic.

"You good, Chen?" Trevor asked.

"Yeah. Just... whatever."

Then it happened—lightning cracked across the sky, purple and electric, followed by thunder so loud the ground seemed to shake under my spikes.

"RACE IS CALLED!" the announcer shouted through crackling speakers. "Everyone take cover!"

The crowd scattered. I stood there frozen, rain plastering my hair to my forehead, something weird building in my chest—relief? disappointment? I couldn't tell.

"Here." Trevor shoved his lucky trucker hat onto my head. It smelled like old rain and sport wax and victory. "You look like a drowned rat. Wear this till we find shelter."

I laughed, actually laughed, and we sprinted toward the school building together, side by side, not racing for once.

Somehow the papaya, the bear story, the lightning—it all felt like signs. My freshman year didn't need to be perfect. It just needed to be mine.