Running with Ghosts

I felt like a **zombie** at Jordan's party, mindlessly scrolling through my phone while people around me laughed too loud at nothing. My older brother said high school parties were "where legends are made," but so far, the only legend being made was how long I could hold this cup of warm soda without looking pathetic.

"Yo, Marcus!" Tommy appeared, clapping my shoulder with unnecessary force. "You good, bro? You look mad stiff." His eyes were glazed, the kind of chill that came from three too many whatever-they-were-drinking.

"I'm good," I lied. "Just... vibing."

"That's **bull**, and we both know it." Tommy smirked, but his expression softened. "Look, nobody's watching you perform. You can chill." He grabbed my cup. "Let me get you something that doesn't taste like sadness."

I followed him toward the kitchen, feeling like I was floating through someone else's life. That's when I saw it—Jordan's **dog**, Buster, a ancient golden retriever who'd been cordoned off in the laundry room. Buster pressed his nose against the baby gate, eyes wide and worried.

Without thinking, I opened the gate.

"What are you doing?" some girl asked, judgment heavy in her voice.

"He looks lonely," I said, and Buster barrelled into my legs like I was his long-lost best friend. His fur smelled like old blankets and unconditional acceptance.

Something shifted. Buster needed out, and honestly, so did I.

"Want to go outside, buddy?" I whispered, and suddenly I was sliding open the back door, stepping into the cool night air with this dog who didn't care if I was cool or awkward or saying the right things.

Buster ran joyful circles in the backyard, and I stood there breathing—actually breathing—for the first time all night. A girl named Sasha joined us, then Tommy, then a bunch of us who'd all been pretending to have the time of our lives inside.

We ended up sitting on the back deck, passing chips and talking about real stuff—college stress, family expectations, how much we all hated feeling like we had to perform. Buster moved between us like a fuzzy therapist, accepting scratches from everyone.

"This is way better than inside," Sasha said, and nobody disagreed.

Around 2 AM, Jordan found us. "You guys are literally hanging with my dog instead of at my party?"

"Your party's mid," Tommy said, and Jordan laughed, dropped down beside us, and scratched Buster's ears.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."