The Fox in My Feed

I'd been functioning on three hours of sleep and pure adrenaline for forty-eight hours, basically a zombie at this point. But when your crush—who you've secretly dubbed "the Fox" in your group chat because he's impossibly clever and impossible to catch—finally comments on your post, sleep becomes optional.

The comment had appeared at 2:47 AM: "nice photography 📸"

I'd stared at my screen until my eyes burned, analyzing each word like it was coded nuclear launch instructions. Nice. Not sick, not fire, not even a basic heart emoji. Just... nice.

"You're overthinking it," my best friend Maya had texted at lunch, while I picked at the spinach salad my mom packed because apparently she's on a health kick and the whole family has to suffer. "He noticed you. That's progress."

"But what does 'nice' mean?" I'd whispered, my voice cracking slightly. "Is it nice like 'your grandma's cookies are nice' or nice like 'I'm lowkey obsessed with your photography and I want to collaborate on a project and maybe also kiss you' nice?"

Maya had rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "You need actual sleep. Your brain is doing that thing where it makes everything weird and dramatic."

She wasn't wrong. The zombie brain fog had made everything feel like I was watching it through someone else's phone screen—disconnected and strangely dreamlike. But I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that comment. Nice. What did it MEAN?

The fox himself sat two tables away, laughing at something his friends said, completely unaware that he'd turned my existence into an endless spiral of overanalysis. I'd been crushing on him since seventh grade, when he'd corrected our science teacher's pronunciation of "photosynthesis" with such quiet confidence that half the class had lowkey swooned.

I'd taken a bite of my spinach, still staring dreamily in his general direction, when Maya's eyes went wide.

"Don't freak out," she'd said way too calmly.

"What?"

"You have spinach in your teeth. Like, a whole leaf."

I'd frozen. The fox was looking in our direction. He was actually looking. I'd grabbed a napkin, practically swiping at my mouth like my life depended on it.

"Did I get it?" I'd hissed.

"Yeah, but you made it worse. You look like you're trying to start a fire with your face."

I'd dropped my head onto the cafeteria table, letting out a groan that deflated my entire soul. This was it. This was how I died. Social death by spinach.

"Hey," someone said.

I'd looked up. The Fox was standing there, holding his phone.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare earlier," he'd said, running a hand through messy brown hair. "I was trying to figure out if that photo you posted was taken behind the old library. I shoot there sometimes."

"Yeah," I'd squeaked. "I mean, yes. That's the spot."

"Cool." He'd smiled—actually smiled, not just commented nice. "Maybe we could shoot there together sometime? If you're interested."

"I'm interested," I'd said way too quickly. "Very interested. In photography. And shooting. Together. As a collaboration."

Maya had kicked me under the table. I'd barely felt it through the layers of embarrassment and sheer euphoria.

"Great," he'd said. "I'll DM you."

As he walked away, Maya had leaned across the table. "See? Sleep deprivation works in mysterious ways. You should thank that spinach leaf. It was your wingman."