The Fox in the Feed

My thumb hovered over the **iphone** screen, heart doing that stupid flutter thing it always did when *he* posted. Leo's latest story: him at some party, glowing, effortless, surrounded by people who actually mattered. Meanwhile, I was curled in bed with Barnaby—my ginger **cat** who hated everyone except me—watching from the sidelines like always.

"You're pathetic, Maya," I muttered, shoving the phone under my pillow.

Barnaby chirped his judgmental meow.

"Shut up, you love me."

Friday night, while everyone who was anyone was at Jessica's party, I found myself in the backyard with my dad's ancient telescope, trying to distract myself with literal stars instead of the social ones. The **hat** I'd stolen from my brother—a faded snapback with some skate brand logo—pulled low over my eyes, my armor against the world.

Then something moved by the fence.

A **fox**. Actual, literal fox, all russet fur and calculated weirdness, watching me like *I* was the strange one here. We stared at each other for what felt like forever. It tilted its head, almost amused.

"What?" I whispered. "Never seen an antisocial loser before?"

The fox's ear twitched. My phone buzzed in my pocket—Leo again, some stupid meme he'd sent only to me. My stomach did that flutter thing again.

But the fox was still watching, and suddenly something clicked. This wild, unapologetic creature didn't care about followers or likes or whether it was cool enough to be at Jessica's party. It just *was*.

I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and—without overthinking it—recorded myself. No filter, no rehearsed caption. Just me, snapback backwards, making direct eye contact with the lens.

"Tonight's vibe: letting a fox judge my life choices. And honestly? The bar is in hell."

I hit post before I could chicken out.

The fox dipped its head like *finally, she gets it* and vanished into the darkness.

My phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Leo had replied: "this is why ur literally my fav person. also WHAT fox"

Something in my chest unclenched. Maybe being seen—really seen—on my own terms was better than being perfect. Maybe the **cable** connecting me to everyone didn't have to be a tether dragging me down. It could be a lifeline.

Barnaby wound around my legs as I went back inside, snapback still backward, finally ready to face the notifications waiting. Not as someone performing coolness, but as someone figuring it out. One awkward, authentic moment at a time.