Running Out of Air

Maya's phone buzzed for the third time in two minutes. Another Instagram story from Kai, looking perfect at Jordan's party without her. She shoved her iPhone deeper into her hoodie pocket, but the phantom vibration sensation lingered against her hip, making her skin crawl. Being fifteen wasn't supposed to feel this much like being under surveillance.

"Come on, Buster," she whispered to her golden retriever, who thumped his tail against the front door. Her parents thought she was just walking the dog, but really she was running from everything: the friend group that had somehow shifted without her, the way conversations at lunch now had that awkward pause when she approached, the gnawing suspicion that everyone knew something she didn't. It felt like she was a spy in her own life, watching from the edges while other people lived.

Buster pulled her toward the park, his nose glued to the ground. The evening air was thick with summer — fireflies blinking in the bushes, distant laughter from someone's backyard, the smell of cut grass and possibility. Maya broke into a jog, then a run, her sneakers slapping against the pavement in rhythm with her too-fast heart. This was the only time she didn't feel like the weird girl who read too much and said too little. The only time she wasn't performing.

Her iPhone lit up again. A text from Kai: "where r u??"

Maya stopped running, bent over, hands on knees. Buster nudged her palm with his wet nose, like he knew. Like he was telling her what she'd been afraid to admit: maybe she didn't want to be invited anymore. Maybe she was tired of running toward people who made her feel small.

She typed back: "with my dog. be there later."

But she didn't go. She sat on the park bench instead, Buster's head in her lap, watching the sky turn purple-black, and for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was missing out. She felt like she was finally showing up.