Supplements & Secrets

The bell above GNC chimed like my anxiety every time the door opened. I adjusted my name tag, arranging vitamin C bottles in perfect military formation. Working here wasn't exactly the social apex of sophomore year, but it beat sitting alone at home while my friends posted stories I wasn't invited to.

"Hey, vitamin kid."

I froze. Derek. The same Derek who'd made seventh grade a living nightmare, who'd cornered me against the lockers while his friends laughed like a Greek chorus of jerks. He stood there now, six-foot-two of former tormentor looking surprisingly small.

"What's up?" I kept my voice steady, channeling my mom's advice about being the bigger person. Even though every instinct screamed *running* for the break room.

"My mom sent me for something." He rubbed his neck. "Joint supplements? For her knee?"

I helped him find the right ones, measuring out words like I did the protein powder—precise, professional, weirdly therapeutic. And then he was gone.

I unlocked my phone to thirteen unread messages. *Party at Jake's!* *Everyone's going!* I swiped them away. Some sphinx-like riddle I couldn't solve: how to exist without disappearing.

That night, Sphinx—my cat, named after my sixth grade mythology phase—jumped onto my windowsill. I laced up my running shoes, something that had started as punishment and become my favorite meditation. The streetlights created constellations along my usual route. My body knew this rhythm.

Around mile three, my phone buzzed. An Instagram notification. Derek had tagged me in a story: a photo of the vitamin bottle, captioned *This kid's actually chill now.*

I stopped running, lungs burning in the good way.

Maybe growth wasn't about becoming someone else. Maybe it was about becoming yourself so thoroughly that the people who used to scare you couldn't reach you anymore. Or maybe—just maybe—they were growing too.

I started running again, faster this time, toward whatever came next.