The Fox at Midnight

I was running—not the chill kind, but the my-life-is-officially-over kind. My hair had decided today of all days to embrace its inner frizz ball, defying three different products I'd aggressively applied.

"You good, Maya?" Liam asked, not looking up from his phone.

"Never been better," I lied. "Just gonna grab the HDMI cable from my room. Be back in ten."

Ten minutes to grab a cable? I was seriously losing it. But I needed out. Movie night with the squad—Liam, perfect and effortless, and me, sweating through my hoodie like a total fraud—was suddenly feeling like too much.

I bolted out the back door, cutting through the woods behind my house because the universe clearly wanted me to embrace chaos tonight. The air hit my face, sharp and real, and I could actually breathe again.

Then I saw it.

A fox. Bright orange, practically glowing in the streetlamp filtering through the trees. Just standing there, watching me like I was the weird one for full-on sprinting through the woods at 10 PM on a Friday.

I stopped running. My heart was pounding anyway.

The fox tilted its head, almost curious, then turned and vanished into shadows like it had somewhere way more interesting to be.

And that's when I started laughing. Like, actually cracking up. Here I was, spiraling over frizzy hair and whether Liam would notice my existence, while a literal fox was out there living its best life, not giving a crap about anything.

I slid down to sit against an oak tree, pulling my knees to my chest. My palm pressed against rough bark, grounding me. The fox sighting felt like a sign—not like, universe-speaking-through-spirit-animals sign, but more like a reminder that the world was bigger than my overthinking brain.

My phone buzzed. Liam: Cable found yet? We're starting without youuu

I grinned, thumbed back: almost there, and actually meant it.

The fox was gone. My hair was still a mess. But for the first time all night, I wasn't running away from anything anymore.