Running From Myself

The gym reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. I stood near the bleachers, clutching my phone like it was a lifeline, watching Marcus—the Marcus—across the room. He was laughing with his friends, completely unaware that my entire existence had narrowed down to this moment.

"You're not actually gonna do it, are you?" Maya whispered, side-eyeing me like I'd grown a second head.

"I have to," I hissed back. "He said he likes girls who can handle themselves. Physically."

"He also said he likes cats, but you don't see me borrowing my aunt's Tabby to boost my rizz."

I rolled my eyes. Maya had been my ride-or-die since sixth grade, but her brand of tough love was hitting different today. Mostly because she wasn't wrong.

The truth was, I'd been catfishing Marcus for weeks. Online, I was this athletic powerhouse who went running every morning and lived her best gym rat life. In reality? My version of cardio was sprinting to the fridge between Netflix episodes.

"Hey, Jordan!" Marcus called, jogging over. His smile made my stomach do that embarrassing fluttery thing.

"Hey!" I squeaked. Smooth.

"So, tomorrow's tryouts," he said. "You ready for the two-mile?"

The two-mile. The one I'd claimed I'd been training for since forever. The one I'd definitely mentioned I could crush.

"So ready," I lied. "Been hitting my vitamins and everything. Gotta get those gains, right?"

What was wrong with me? Who said "gains"?

Marcus nodded, looking impressed. "That's awesome. Coach says bull sessions are brutal, but you seem like you could handle it."

Bull sessions? Was that even a thing? I nodded like I knew exactly what he meant.

"Yeah, super ready for the bull. The... sessions."

"Cool." He stepped closer. "Hey, since we're both trying out, maybe we could train together?"

My brain short-circuited. This was everything I wanted—and everything I couldn't have.

"That would be..." I started, but then my phone buzzed. A text from my mom: Dad's stuck in the city. Need you to come home and watch your little sister. The cable guy's coming between 3-7.

3-7. Exactly when tryouts started.

"Is everything okay?" Marcus asked, all genuine concern.

I looked at him—at his kind eyes and the way he actually seemed interested in my answer. And I realized something that made my chest tight: I didn't want a relationship built on lies. Even small ones. Even the kind that seemed harmless.

"Actually," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, "I have to tell you something. I'm not... I haven't been training. At all. I kind of exaggerated everything. Online."

The silence stretched. Maya looked like she was calculating survival routes.

Then Marcus smiled. "Dude. I knew."

"What?"

"Your Instagram shows you eating pizza at 2 AM. You're not exactly secret agent material." He shrugged. "But you're funny as hell in the group chat. That's why I wanted to hang out."

My face burned. But not from embarrassment—from something warmer.

"So... you still want to train?" I asked. "For real this time? I mean, I'll probably die, but—"

"Running from who you are never works," he said. "Let's start with walking. Work our way up."

"Walking I can do," I said. "Walking is my whole brand."

"Good." He grinned. "Also, your cat is really cute."

"You've seen my cat?"

"Instagram, Jordan. I've been following you since freshman year."

Sometimes the best moments aren't the ones we plan. They're the ones where we stop running and finally let ourselves be seen.