The Long Way Round

The water bottle sat untouched on my nightstand for the third day in a row. Mom had left it there with that sticky note — "Hydrate, sweetie! Love you" — which was basically Mom-speak for "I know you're spiraling and I don't know how to help."

I grabbed it anyway.

"You're walking Buster today, right?" she called from downstairs.

"Yeah. Got it."

Buster was Mrs. Chen's golden retriever, and walking him was supposed to be my 'summer responsibility,' which translated to 'free labor because you're fifteen now and need to learn accountability.' Whatever.

The moment Buster saw me, he started that whole-body wiggle thing, like I'd personally invented joy. I clipped his leash and we headed out, but my brain was still stuck on Saturday — on Jordan's party, on how I'd stood in the corner for forty minutes holding the same red cup, on how everyone seemed to know exactly who they were supposed to be, and I was just... there.

Buster tugged hard toward the park, and suddenly I was running.

Not jog-running. Actually running, sneakers slapping pavement, breath coming way too fast, Buster galloping beside me like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. We passed the elementary school where I'd spent seven years feeling like I was waiting for real life to start. We passed the 7-Eleven where Jordan and everyone hung out, where I'd never managed to be cool enough to belong.

My phone buzzed in my pocket — group chat blowing up about something I wasn't there for.

I kept running.

By the time we reached the creek, I was drenched. Not cute-movie drenched. Gross-drenched. I sat on the edge and stuck my feet in the water, which was freezing and perfect and real. Buster flopped down beside me, panting, his golden fur matted with mud and whatever else we'd charged through.

He nudged my hand with his wet nose, demanding pets like he hadn't just dragged me three miles.

"You're ridiculous," I told him, scratching behind his ears.

Buster looked at me with those dopey eyes, like I'd just paid him the highest compliment. Like the version of me that was stressed about parties and group chats and fitting in was totally fine. Like I could just be, and that was enough.

The water cooled my burning feet. My phone had gone quiet.

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

We walked home the long way, and I didn't check my phone once. The water bottle sat untouched on my nightstand, but I'd learned something better than hydration: sometimes you have to run away from everything to figure out what you're actually running toward.