Spin Until You Fly

The mechanical bull at the county fair looked like it had seen better days. Its vinyl patch job screamed 'questionable choices' which, honestly, was also the vibe of my entire freshman year.

"You're actually gonna do this?" Maya asked, eyes wide. My best friend since kindergarten, now suddenly too cool for everything except judging me. "You're gonna embarrass yourself."

"That's kind of the point." I stepped up to the platform while the operator — a guy who definitely didn't wash his hands after the bathroom — adjusted his hat. The sphinx moth perched on the ticket booth caught my eye, all dusty brown and mysterious, like it knew something I didn't.

Growing up felt like a riddle with no answer. High school had everyone acting like they'd swallowed a textbook on 'How to Be Normal' while I was still figuring out which version of myself to present to the world first.

"You got this," some random kid yelled. Probably sarcasm. Definitely appreciated.

I climbed onto the bull's back, gripping the handle with white knuckles. The operator smirked like he was already mentally counting my failed attempts.

The first spin launched me sideways. I held on. The second buck nearly threw me forward. I dug my heels in. People were cheering now, or laughing — honestly couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Then the bull did that violent twist-move, and suddenly I was airborne, landing in the padded area while Maya's laughter rang out sharp and sudden. But she wasn't laughing at me. She was laughing with me, something I hadn't heard in months.

"You literally flew," she said, helping me up. "That was actually kind of iconic."

We walked to the parking lot, the distance between us suddenly smaller. The sphinx moth had flown off, but I finally understood its secret — transformation isn't about becoming something else. It's about embracing the chaos of becoming yourself.

"Same time next year?" I asked.

Maya grinned. "Absolutely. But I'm going first."