The Day I Stopped Running

I'd been running from the water since sixth grade. The incident at the community pool—where I'd somehow managed to choke on three gallons of chlorinated embarrassment while attempting a simple dive—had cemented my reputation as the kid who couldn't swim.

So when Maya transferred to our school and immediately joined the swim team, I did what any self-respecting fifteen-year-old would do: I signed up for baseball.

"I didn't know you played," she said one afternoon, watching me utterly fail at batting practice.

"I don't," I admitted, gripping the bat like it might bite me. "But I figured someone should be terrible at something other than swimming."

Maya laughed, and it sounded like something I wanted to hear again.

That afternoon, the sky turned that sickly yellow-green that means everything's about to go wrong. Coach blew his whistle—everyone inside, now. We gathered in the dugout as the first rumble of thunder rolled across the field, closer than I wanted it to be.

Then lightning struck the scoreboard.

The whole thing exploded in a flash so bright I saw spots for days. The emergency lights flickered on as rain started coming down sideways, flooding the dugout within seconds. Water pooled around our cleats.

"Where's it coming from?" someone yelled.

The drain had backed up. And in the chaos, I noticed something—Maya wasn't moving. She was curled against the back wall, shaking.

"I—I can't," she whispered when I reached her. "Storms. Since I was little."

The girl who'd been diving into pools since forever was terrified of thunder. And here I was, the supposed coward, suddenly realizing we'd both been running from different things.

I sat beside her as the water kept rising, both of us soaked to the bone. "Hey," I said. "My first baseball game, and we're literally underwater. Pretty on brand for me."

Maya laughed through her fear, and we rode out the storm together, two people figuring out that nobody's brave at everything.

I'm still terrible at baseball. And Maya still hates storms. But we're done running.