Stealing Home

Maya's phone buzzed with another text from Jordan: Baseball tryouts at 4. DON'T be late. Again. The words blurred as tears threatened—third time this week she'd cried over him. She grabbed her backpack and started running toward the old rec center, sneakers slapping against pavement, breath catching in her throat like something stuck there.

The social pyramid at Westbridge High had Jordan at the apex—varsity shorts, effortless confidence, everyone orbiting his brightness. Maya hovered somewhere in the middle: smart enough to be invisible, not quite invisible enough to escape notice. They'd been dating since September, but lately everything felt wrong. Like she was performing a role she'd forgotten she'd auditioned for.

Behind the rec center, near the rusted jungle gym where they'd first kissed, Maya collapsed onto the grass. Her chest heaved. The water fountain nearby dripped steadily, counting seconds like some ancient timer. That's when she saw it—a scrawny cat with patchy fur, curled beneath the wooden bench where Jordan had sat that first day, making fun of her braces.

The cat lifted its head, yellow eyes narrowing. Something in its gaze felt judgmental, like it knew she'd been runner-up in Jordan's three-way text game all semester.

"You too?" Maya whispered. The cat stood, stretched, and padded toward her. Its collar glinted—gold tag shaped like a tiny pyramid. Anubis, ancient Egyptian god of the dead, weighing hearts against feathers.

The baseball field lights flickered on in the distance. Jordan's tryout. Maya's stomach twisted. She could still go—sit in the bleachers, cheer for his home run, pretend everything was fine. Pretend she wasn't dying inside.

Instead, she pulled a granola bar from her bag, broke it in half. The cat ate from her palm, rough tongue tickling her skin. In that moment, everything crystallized: Jordan had never chosen her. She'd just been the only one who said yes first. That wasn't being chosen. That was being convenient.

Maya stood up, wiped her palms on her jeans. The cat butted her ankle, purring like a tiny engine. She started walking—toward home, toward her mom's lasagna, toward the unknown future that suddenly felt like possibility instead of terror. Behind her, the crack of baseball bats echoed. Jordan would hit his home run without her. He always had.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, Maya didn't look down. She just kept running, each step lighter than the last.