Riddles We Run From

My legs burned as I rounded the track for the third time, breath coming in ragged gasps that tasted like morning air and desperation. Cross country tryouts were tomorrow, and Coach Martinez had made it crystal clear: only the top seven runners made varsity.

"You're overthinking it again," Maya said from the bleachers, legs swinging off the edge. My best friend since sixth grade, now sitting comfortably in the popularity tier I'd never quite cracked.

I dropped beside her, sweat dripping down my back. "Easy for you to say. You already made varsity. Meanwhile, my mom's got me on this health kick—seriously, Maya, you know what I had for breakfast? A spinach smoothie that tasted like lawn clippings and regret."

Maya snorted. "At least your mom cares. Mine just asks if I've lost weight."

We sat in silence for a minute, watching the clouds drift across the sky like they had nowhere better to be. This was our thing: running together, talking about everything and nothing. But lately, something had shifted. Maya had joined the popular crowd. I was still the girl who sat alone at lunch sometimes, reading while everyone else lived their best lives.

My cat, Barnaby, understood better than anyone. Last night he'd curled up on my bed while I studied for the history test I'd probably fail anyway, purring like he knew exactly how it felt to be small in a world that felt too big.

"You know what my English teacher said today?" I said suddenly. "That the sphinx represents all the questions we're afraid to ask ourselves. Who are we? What do we want? Why do we run toward some things and away from others?"

Maya looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in weeks. "Are you running from something, Em?"

"Maybe I'm running toward something," I said, even though we both knew I was lying.

She nodded slowly, like she was solving a riddle she hadn't realized was a question. "You know what? Forget varsity. Let's just run. Not for tryouts. For us."

So we ran. We ran until our legs burned and our lungs screamed and we couldn't remember why we'd ever cared about being popular or perfect or whatever seventh-grade version of ourselves we were supposed to be. We ran like the sphinx himself was chasing us, demanding answers we weren't ready to give.

And somewhere between mile two and Maya laughing so hard she tripped over her own feet, I realized something: maybe the answer wasn't in the running. Maybe it was in the running beside someone who made even spinach smoothies taste a little less lonely.