Running on Empty

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter, a neon-orange betrayal of my actual mood. Mom had bought it because she read somewhere it helps with focus, which was rich considering I hadn't focused on anything since Jordan dumped me three weeks ago via Snapchat.

"You've been moving like a zombie," she'd said that morning, and honestly? She wasn't wrong. I'd been ghosting through AP Chem, scrolling past his stories, surviving on iced coffee and spite.

Today's cross-country meet was the last thing I needed. Coach Miller—everyone called him The Bull behind his back, mostly because he was stubborn as hell and built like a vending machine—had been riding me all season. 'Pick up your knees, Garcia. Get your head in the game. You're running like you're half asleep.'

Funny how that's exactly how I felt.

The gun went off. My body remembered what my brain had forgotten—legs pumping, breath ragged, the rhythmic thud of spikes against dirt. For a mile, I was just running. Not running away from the cafeteria where Jordan now sat with Isabella. Not running toward anything. Just running, my body a machine built for this exact thing, heart hammering against ribs like it wanted to break out and say something real.

Then I saw it—the flash of neon orange through the trees. Mom's papaya, packed in my gear bag like some kind of weird good-luck charm, because apparently she'd slipped it in there with a note that said 'Fuel your fire.'

Something in me cracked. Not broke—cracked, like light through a door.

I kicked. Hard. The Bull's voice echoed somewhere: 'Leave everything out there, Garcia.' So I did. I left the heartbreak, the embarrassment, the way I'd shrunk myself small enough to fit into someone else's idea of who I should be. I ran until my lungs burned, until I couldn't feel anything except the ground beneath me and the wind cutting through everything I'd been carrying.

I crossed the finish line and collapsed, chest heaving, staring up at a sky so blue it made my eyes water. The Bull appeared above me, actually smiling for once. 'Now that's the Garcia I know.'

Later, I sat on the tailgate of someone's truck, eating papaya slices like they were the most normal thing in the world. Sweet and weird and messy. Jordan walked by with Isabella, and for the first time, I didn't look away. I just kept eating, letting the juice drip down my chin, feeling entirely, unapologetically alive.