The Fox at Midnight

My phone lit up at 2 AM, that familiar blue glow cutting through the darkness like a digital ghost. 157 unread notifications. 23 DMs I'd been too anxious to open. My thumb hovered over Finley's name, that three-dot typing indicator mocking me from the screen.

"Are you coming tomorrow?" she'd asked four hours ago. I still hadn't replied.

I crept downstairs, needing air, needing anything but the relentless **iphone** screen that had become my entire world. Mom's health phase was in full force—**vitamin** gummies in every drawer, that disgusting **spinach** smoothie she swore would "fix my mood." Whatever that meant.

The back door squeaked. I slipped onto the porch, and there it was—a **fox**. Not Instagram cute, but real. Matted rusty fur, one ear torn, eyes too old for its body. It stared at me like it knew something.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Same."

We watched each other. The fox didn't run. I didn't check my notifications. For three minutes, nothing demanded anything from me. No ratios. No FOMO. No careful curation of a life I wasn't actually living.

The fox's head tilted. Almost like it was waiting.

"You're not scared?" I asked.

It blinked slowly, then turned and vanished into the woods.

My phone buzzed. Another notification. I didn't look.

Finley had been my best friend since seventh grade. But this year, everything changed. She got highlights. I got anxiety. She discovered parties. I discovered that saying "I'm fine" could sound exactly like "I'm dying inside" if you practiced enough.

The fox had looked lonely. That was the word I couldn't quite place earlier. Lonely like me.

I typed back: "Can we talk?"

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. "I've been so worried about you."

The fox emerged from the shadows, sat on the grass, and watched dawn break through the trees. Like it was waiting to see what happened next.

Me too, fox. Me too.