The Fox at Mile Four

The morning air bit at my lungs as I hit mile four, my headphones blasting something mid enough to ignore the burning in my quads. Cross-country practice wasn't supposed to be my whole personality, but try telling that to Coach Miller or my mom, who'd basically decided my college applications depended on state qualifiers.

That's when I saw it—a fox, actual literal wildlife, standing on the trail like it owned the place. It had the audacity to look at me, this sweaty mess in neon running gear, with pure judgment.

I stopped. Bad idea. My legs turned to jello. The fox tilted its head, almost like it was laughing at me, then trotted off into someone's backyard like it was late for something way more important than disrupting my pity party.

"Did you just stop to watch a fox?" Jenna caught up to me, barely winded because she's built different and also possibly a robot. "Coach is gonna kill you."

"It was a moment," I said, but she was already jogging ahead, her ponytail swinging like she had somewhere to be that wasn't here.

Later, while everyone else was chugging their gross protein smoothies and comparing GPS watches, I sat on the grass watching clouds move. Marcus, this sophomore who thought he was underground tiktok famous because one video got 2k views, dropped beside me.

"You okay? You look dead."

"I'm just questioning every life choice that led to me running in circles at 6 AM."

He laughed and tossed me something—a neon orange bottle. "My mom says I need these. Apparently I'm deficient in literally everything."

Vitamin gummies. The kind shaped like bears because we're children.

"Dude, I'm not taking your weird supplements."

"Free real estate," he said, and I actually laughed because who says that anymore.

The fox had been right to judge me. I was overthinking everything—college, times, whether Jenna thought I was weird for stopping to look at wildlife. Sometimes you need a random forest creature to remind you that maybe, just maybe, none of this matters as much as Coach Miller thinks it does.

"Thanks for the vitamins," I said, pocketing them. "I'll save them for when I'm dying at mile six tomorrow."

"No problem. Just don't tell my mom I gave them away. She thinks they're crucial for my development."

I realized something as we walked back to the locker room—this whole high school thing, the pressure, the weird social dynamics, it's all just running in circles hoping a fox doesn't judge you for stopping to breathe. And that's kind of beautiful, actually.