The Oracle of Seven Minutes

Maya's iphone buzzed with the countdown—seven minutes until she'd be locked in the closet with him. Luke. The Luke who'd caught a line drive during last week's baseball game and made it look effortless, while Maya mostly just hoped nobody would notice she'd forgotten her glove again.

"You got this," whispered Priya, adjusting her orange oversized hoodie that practically swallowed her whole. "Just, like, don't make it weird."

Easier said than done. Maya's social skills were roughly equivalent to her pet goldfish's memory span—nonexistent and constantly swimming in circles. She'd spent three years perfecting the art of blending into the background, becoming a ghost in her own high school halls. Being seen? Actually seen? That was terrifying.

"Time!" someone shouted, and suddenly she was being pushed toward the coat closet, Luke stepping in behind her like this was totally normal and not the most awkward thing that had ever happened to anyone.

The door clicked shut. Darkness. The smell of old coats and something minty.

"So," Luke said. "I, uh, saw your fox drawing in art class. The one with the geometric patterns? It was sick."

Maya froze. She'd shown that to exactly one person—Priya. Had Luke noticed? Had he actually looked?

"Thanks," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I like how foxes are supposed to be cunning but they're also just... doing their best. Survival mode, you know?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "Like how everybody's acting like they've got it together but really we're all just figuring it out. Even the baseball guys. Especially the baseball guys."

Something in her chest loosened. Maybe she wasn't the only one pretending.

"My goldfish died last week," she found herself saying. "I had it for three years and it never learned to recognize me. But I still cried when it floated. Is that stupid?"

"Nah," Luke said. "I cried when my grandmother gave away my baseball card collection. I was fourteen."

They talked about everything and nothing—school expectations, feeling invisible, the weird performance of being a teenager. When the door finally opened, neither of them moved immediately.

Later, walking home under orange streetlights, Maya's phone buzzed. Luke had followed her on instagram. The caption on his latest post read: maybe the real art is being honest about being lost.

For the first time, Maya didn't feel like a ghost. She felt like someone who might actually be seen.