The Art of Floating

The chlorine stung my eyes, but I didn't care. Friday night at Marcos's pool party was basically social suicide to miss, and here I was, hovering near the snack table like a goldfish that forgot how to swim.

"You gonna float there all night or actually jump in?" Jake's voice carried over the splashing and laughter. He was shirtless,holding a baseball bat like he owned the place, even though this was a pool party, not a batting cage.

"I'm thinking about it," I lied. I wasn't thinking about anything except how everyone looked so effortless in their skin, how the popular girls moved through the water like synchronized swimmers while I stayed stuck on dry land.

My phone buzzed. A text from Luna: *fox sighting near the fence. come quick.*

Luna. My best friend since seventh grade, the only person who knew I was terrified of deep water. I crept toward the back fence, away from the pool lights and social pressure.

She was there, crouched in the shadows, pointing at a rust-orange figure darting through the bushes. "Look at him," she whispered. "Just vibing. Wild."

The fox paused, ears perked, watching the party unfold like it was the most boring nature documentary ever. Then it caught my eye—something intelligent and unimpressed in its gaze.

"He's not scared," I said, surprised by my own voice. "He's just... observing."

"Exactly." Luna bumped my shoulder. "Like you. You think you're supposed to be in the pool performing, but maybe you're just meant to watch from the edges and figure stuff out."

Something loosened in my chest. The fox flicked its tail and disappeared into the night, taking my anxiety with it. I didn't jump in the pool that night. Luna and I sat on the grass eating stolen chips, watching Jake try to hit baseballs into the water, laughing when he missed spectacularly every time.

Some people were meant to make splashes. Others were meant to notice the fox in the bushes. And that was okay.