The Fox in My Feed

My thumb hovered over the screen at 2 AM, the blue light washing over my face like a ghost. Again. Like I'd been doing every night since September, when Maya's Instagram posts started looking different. Her. The girl who used to sit next to me in homeroom, the one who'd somehow ascended while I stayed exactly the same. I was basically a certified cyber-stalking spy at this point, watching her life unfold in perfectly filtered squares. My iPhone 12 — with the cracked screen I'd promised my mom I'd fix, oops — was basically a weapon at this point.

"You're doing it again," a voice said from the doorway.

I nearly dropped my phone. Lily. My actual, real, breathing friend who slept over because we'd both failed our Bio midterm and decided misery deserved company. She stood there in her oversized hoodie, looking at me with that terrifyingly accurate perception.

"Doing what?"

"Being a spy," she said, flopping onto my bed. Barnaby, my golden retriever, immediately abandoned his post at the foot of the bed to assault her with kisses. Traitor. "It's been three months, Sam. Maya moved on. You're still here, watching her stories like you're hunting for clues."

"I'm not—"

"You are. And I get it. But it's weird." She sat up, dog hair all over her black hoodie. "Remember that fox we saw that night? The one in Mrs. Henderson's backyard? The one that just watched us like it knew something we didn't?"

I did remember. We'd been walking home from a party where I hadn't spoken to anyone except the host's dog. The fox had appeared suddenly, amber eyes gleaming, something wild and watchful. We'd frozen, captivated, until it dissolved back into the darkness.

"You're the fox now," Lily said quietly. "You're watching everyone else live while you're stuck behind the fence. But here's the thing — foxes aren't actually stuck. They're out there living. They choose when to be seen."

She reached over and took my phone, setting it face-down on the nightstand. Barnaby let out this dramatic huff and positioned himself between me and the device.

"Foxes don't stare at phones," Lily added. "They don't spy on people who moved on. They find their own way."

I looked at her, really looked at her. The friend who'd stuck around while I obsessed over someone who hadn't. The dog who loved me even when I was being a total idiot.

"So what do foxes do instead?" I asked.

Lily grinned. "They run. They hunt. They exist. And sometimes, they find other foxes who actually want to run with them."

Barnaby chose that moment to let out the most heroic bark I'd ever heard.

"Exactly," Lily said. "The dog agrees. Now put the phone away. We're sneaking out."

"To where?"

Her eyes glinted, something mischievous and alive. "To find out what it's like to stop watching and start being."

Somewhere outside, a siren wailed. My phone buzzed. I didn't check it. For the first time in months, I didn't want to know what Maya was doing. I was too busy wondering what foxes did at 3 AM, and whether I was ready to find out.