Social Feed Spy

Maya ate her papaya with tactical precision every morning before school. The ritual kept her grounded, especially after she'd accidentally liked Jacob's post from three years ago at 2 AM—social stalking fail level: expert.

At school, everyone called Riley a "fox"—sleek, impossible to catch, always three steps ahead in the hierarchy game. Maya just felt like a goldfish floating in Riley's elaborate social aquarium, constantly forgetting her own worth while everyone else remembered exactly who mattered.

"You're literally the best human _spy_ I know," whispered her best friend Leo, nodding toward where Riley held court in the cafeteria. "Riley's dog died yesterday and nobody knows. You could find out how."

Maya's stomach did that teenage thing where it simultaneously wanted to vomit and take over the world. Because here's the thing about being fifteen: your empathy wars with your ambition, and both lose.

She found Riley behind the bleachers, not crying but perfectly composed, feeding squirrels pieces of her lunch like a Disney princess going through it.

"Hey," Maya said, because apparently her mouth worked independently from her brain now.

Riley's fox-sharp eyes softened. "You saw my story. About Buster."

"Yeah. I... my dog, too. Last summer."

The social hierarchy dissolved in two seconds flat. Riley wasn't a fox, just a girl hiding in plain sight. Maya wasn't a goldfish, just someone who'd forgotten that grief was the great equalizer.

"Wanna skip?" Riley asked. "There's this place that serves papaya smoothies."

Maya's social spy days ended there. Some stories aren't meant to be exposed—just experienced, preferably with someone who gets it.

The goldfish thing, though? That was still real. She'd definitely forget to text Riley back within three hours. But maybe that was okay. Some things you don't need to remember every single time.