Running From Reflection

I started running at 2 AM because that's when the demons sleep, apparently. Or maybe just because my dad was definitely asleep by then and wouldn't see me sneaking out in last year's cross country flats that barely fit.

The night I found out about the state championships—that my coach had entered my name in the 200 freestyle without telling me—I didn't sleep. I just stared at my ceiling fan, my stomach doing that awful twisty thing it does when I think about the pool. About the way the water presses against your chest. About how everyone assumes because I'm tall and lanky, I must love swimming.

I don't. I haven't since I was twelve and got trapped under a lane rope during practice, the chlorine burning my throat while everyone kept swimming laps above me.

At 2:07 AM, I was running past Mrs. Henderson's house, where Bear—her massive, terrifying-looking Newfoundland who secretly loves belly rubs—was asleep on the porch. He raised his head at my footsteps, thumped his tail once, and went back to sleep. Even the dog knew I was a mess.

I ended up at the community center, my chest burning, sweat dripping down my back. The vending machine light hummed in the darkness. I pressed my forehead against the glass, staring at the awful green smoothie things labeled "SUPERFOOD DETOX"—basically liquified spinach with some apple for flavor.

"You gonna buy that or just emotionally bond with it?"

I jumped. Maya—actual Maya Chen, who'd won state last year in the 100 backstroke—was sitting on a bench behind me, eating from a Tupperware container. She offered me a container too. "My mom's health phase. Want some? It's not as bad as it looks."

It was awful. We sat there eating spinach salad at 3 AM while I admitted everything: how I'd been faking stomach aches to get out of practice, how I couldn't tell my dad because swimming was HIS thing too, how I felt like a fraud.

Maya nodded like this was normal. "I quit swimming for six months last year. Couldn't stand the pressure. My parents thought I was injured."

"Wait, really?"

"Bear with me here," she said, and I actually laughed because—Bear. From down the street. "The point is, you don't owe anyone your trauma as entertainment. You can just... not do the thing that makes you want to throw up every morning."

We're still running together at 2 AM. Sometimes Bear wakes up and joins us, plodding along like a shadow. I told my dad last week. He was disappointed, but he's dealing with it. And Maya? She's teaching me that some things—like real friendship, like being honest with yourself—are worth the scary conversations.

I still hate the pool. But I don't hate who I'm becoming anymore.