The Bear in the Backpack

Jordan stared at the mirror, fingers adjusting the brim of their snapback for the fiftieth time. The hat was supposed to be cool—it was the same one Kai wore in that TikTok that got half a million views—but on Jordan, it just felt like a costume. A prop. Something to hide behind.

Their childhood dog, Buster, nudged Jordan's knee with a wet nose, oblivious to the existential crisis happening upstairs. Buster had been Jordan's constant since second grade, back when the biggest worry was whether the cafeteria served pizza on Fridays. Now? Now everything felt like walking a tightrope without a net.

"You're not seriously taking that, are you?" Jordan's younger sibling appeared in the doorway, pointing at the backpack where a threadbare teddy bear peeked out. Mr. Cuddles. The emotional support bear that had survived countless nightmares, family road trips, and that one embarrassing incident in fourth grade when Jordan accidentally brought it to school and everyone called them "the baby kid" for three weeks straight.

"Shut up," Jordan muttered, shoving the bear deeper into the bag. But they didn't remove it. Something about Mr. Cuddles's one button eye and the ear that Jordan's mom had surgically reattached with dental floss made everything feel slightly less terrifying.

Their mom appeared with the morning routine weapon: a vitamin gummy that supposedly boosted immunity and reduced stress. "Take this. Freshman year is going to be wild." Her tone suggested she'd survived something similar, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and social media meant passing notes in class.

Jordan swallowed it, suddenly grateful for the artificial grape flavor and the illusion of protection it offered. Anything that helped.

The bus ride was a masterclass in social reconnaissance. Jordan texted their group chat—*I'm literally going to throw up*—and watched three different people respond with variations of *same* and *we got this*. The solidarity helped, but not as much as the weight of Mr. Cuddles hidden in the bottom of the backpack, a fuzzy anchor to a simpler time.

When Jordan finally stepped into the hallway, someone bumped into them hard enough to knock the snapback askew. For a second, Jordan considered fixing it—performing the cool kid adjustment—but instead left it slightly crooked. Let it be messy. Let it be real.

Buster would be proud. Mr. Cuddles certainly wouldn't judge. And somewhere in the chaos of lockers slamming and voices overlapping, Jordan found a sliver of something that felt like courage, fuzzy and imperfect and absolutely enough.