Running Between Worlds

The lightning crackled across the sky as I adjusted my skirt for the third time. Senior year. Supposed to be the time of my life, right? Try navigating three different versions of yourself without losing your mind.

"You coming to the padel courts?" Jake called from his BMW, that effortless smile that made half the junior class swoon. Padel. Because apparently tennis wasn't pretentious enough for our private school.

"Can't. Grandma needs help with the papaya trees," I lied. The truth? I'd rather be anywhere but there.

Back home, the smell of ripe papaya filled our tiny apartment. Abuela's domain, where my real name—María Elena—actually meant something. Not "Mary" like everyone at school said. Not that they'd get it anyway.

My phone buzzed. Twenty-seven notifications. The group chat was losing it without me.

"MARY WHERE R U??"

"jake literally asked about u"

"we're playing mixed doubles u HAVE to come"

I flopped onto my bed and stared at my goldfish bowl. Finn swam around, oblivious, living his best fish life. Sometimes I wished I could just float around eating flakes and watching plastic castles.

"You don't have to decide who you are today, Finn," I whispered. The lightning flashed again, closer this time.

Running. That's what I should be doing. Junior varsity track team, my one escape from expectations. But Coach wanted me at districts next weekend. Same time as Abuela's birthday dinner. Same time as the padel tournament Jake had been talking about for weeks.

Three worlds colliding.

The thunder shook the windows. My phone lit up again.

"storm's getting crazy. padel courts are flooded. party at tyler's instead?"

I stared at my reflection in the glass. Mary would go. María Elena would stay. The girl who loved running track and talking to her goldfish about identity crises would...

**would what?**

The lightning struck somewhere close, and suddenly it hit me. I'd been running from everything, but I could just... stop running and choose. Not Mary, not María Elena. Me.

I grabbed my shoes. Not the cute ones Jake liked. The running shoes.

"Finn, guard the papayas," I said, and slipped out into the rain.

Some things you have to figure out in a storm. Some things you figure out running through one, wet hair plastered to your face, not caring who sees you messy.

Some things you figure out when you finally stop running and just... are.