The Art of Not Running

I'd been running for three years straight—not the athletic kind, the emotional kind. Through hallway pass-bys, awkward cafeteria exits, and every time Jordan walked into AP Bio with that devastating half-smile. My palms would sweat, my heart would race, and I'd bolt.

Then came the day I accidentally became the unofficial school spy. Maya caught me behind the bleachers during lunch, watching Jordan's friend group through the chain-link fence like some low-budget detective.

"You're not subtle," she said, sliding down beside me. "Also, you've got spinach in your teeth."

I scrubbed my palm across my mouth, mortified. "I was just... observing."

"Spying," she corrected. "Same diff." She handed me a mint. "Here's a free tip: Jordan's been asking about you."

My heart did that familiar flutter-panic thing. "Probably wants to know why the weird kid keeps staring."

"Or maybe likes the attention." Maya stood up. "Some people find that kind of dedicated noticing... endearing."

The next day, Jordan intercepted me at my locker. "Hey, I heard you run track. Want to train together sometime?"

I nearly melted into the floor. "I—yeah. I mean, sure."

Later, Maya found me hyperventilating in the bathroom. "See? Not running away worked out."

I looked at my palm, still damp from nerves, and realized something: I'd spent three years running from exactly what I wanted. Sometimes the scariest thing isn't being seen—it's letting yourself be seen, spinach teeth and all.