Sweaty Palms & Sunset Spies

My palms were sweating so hard I could barely grip my phone. That's what happens when you're playing social media detective, aka being a total creep, but whatever. It's not like I'm actually stalking her. Just checking in. Making sure she's okay. Totally normal behavior.

The bull that Nick was spewing at lunch yesterday still echoed in my head. "She's not into you, bro. Just accept it and move on." Like he knows anything. Nick's been rejected three times this month alone by the same girl. That's some impressive dedication to failure, honestly.

I was running behind anyway—late for track practice, Coach Mitchell was gonna kill me—when I saw it. Her story. An orange sky, that perfect golden hour where everything looks cinematic. She was at the pier. Alone. Or at least, she looked alone. The angle was all weird.

My phone buzzed. Nick: "Stop spying and start running, you're missing practice lol"

I groaned and shoved the phone in my pocket. But the orange sky... it felt like a sign. Or maybe I'm just dramatic. That's what my mom says. "You're fifteen, Marcus, not the protagonist of a tragedy."

Fine. Maybe she's right. But maybe, just maybe, the universe was telling me something. That orange sunset, the way her hair looked in the light, the fact that she was at my favorite spot...

I started running. Not toward the pier—I'd miss practice and get benched for the meet on Friday—but through my neighborhood, letting the burn in my legs distract me from the knot in my stomach. From the way my hands kept shaking, palms slick with nervous sweat that had nothing to do with exercise.

Tomorrow. I'd talk to her tomorrow. No more social media spy games. No more letting Nick's bull get in my head. Just me, her, and maybe—just maybe—an orange soda from the vending machine by the pier.

First step: stop running. Second step: actually say something instead of just watching from afar.

Easier said than done.