Sunday Morning Spy Games

Maya's thumb hovered over the screen at 2:47 AM, the blue light washing over her face in the darkness. She was doing it again — stalking Jordan's profile like a total creep, basically a digital spy in her own life. His latest post: a blurry photo of sneakers with the caption "morning run 🏃‍♂️" posted thirteen minutes ago.

"You're being pathetic," she muttered, tossing her iPhone onto her pillow like it was radioactive. Her cat, Pancake, lifted his head from the foot of the bed with judgment in his yellow eyes. "Don't look at me like that, Pancake. At least one of us has a life."

Pancake responded by licking his paw with deliberate slowness.

Monday at school, the universe decided to play a cruel joke. Jordan fell into step beside her at lunch. "Hey, you're Maya, right? From AP English?"

Her brain short-circuited. This was it. The moment she'd spent half her nocturnal hours preparing for, practicing cool responses in the mirror. Instead, she heard herself say, "I like your... shoe picture."

The words hung in the air like a social suicide note. Jordan's eyebrows shot up. "Oh yeah, thanks. I'm big into running now. Training for the track meet next weekend."

"Cool, cool." She was nodding too much. She always nodded too much when she was nervous. "I run. Sometimes. Away from things. Like... situations."

What was wrong with her?

But Jordan was laughing. Not mean laughing. Actually laughing. "I feel that. Sometimes you gotta just... book it."

"Exactly. Booking it. My specialty."

They were walking together now, and she was hyper-aware of everything — the way his backpack bumped against hers, the cafeteria smells (today's special: mystery meat casserole), the fact that she was definitely sweating through her favorite hoodie.

"Hey," Jordan said, stopping at a junction. "Some of us are going to the skate park after school. You should come. Bring whoever."

"I'll be there," she said, before the panic could set in. Before she could remember she didn't skateboard and her social circle consisted of Pancake and her cousin who lived in another state.

That night, Maya lay in bed staring at the ceiling, iPhone dark beside her. No more spy games. Jordan had actually talked to her. Invited her places. The screen lit up with a notification: Jordan tagged you in a post.

Pancake meowed from the doorway.

"I know," she whispered. "Tomorrow might actually be... not terrible."

Outside her window, the neighborhood was quiet. Somewhere, Jordan was probably sleeping. And somewhere, the version of herself who wasn't constantly watching from the sidelines was finally stepping onto the field.