The Palm Reader's Secret

Maya's hands wouldn't stop sweating. She gripped her phone so hard her **palm** left a fog on the screen, but she couldn't look away. There it was again—another photo of Alex at that party she wasn't invited to. She'd been quietly **spy**ing on his Instagram for twenty minutes, lurking in that digital space where everyone could see everything but no one said anything.

Her mom yelled from downstairs, "Maya! Are you still stressing about that boy?"

Maya rolled her eyes. First of all, she wasn't stressing. Second of all, Alex wasn't just "that boy." He was Alex, who sat behind her in chemistry and made dumb puns until she snorted. Alex, who noticed when she cut her **hair** into a bob last month and said, "Wait, actually that looks sick." Not fake nice, but actual nice.

Now she was staring at her **iphone**, watching him live his best life without her.

Her phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.

**alex:** hey wyd

**maya:** lol nothing

**alex:** wanna come over? sam's bringing pizza

Maya stared at the screen. This was it—the moment she'd been overthinking in her bedroom for weeks. Her palms were practically drowning now. She could stay here, safely lurking, or she could actually show up.

Her room felt suddenly too small. The **hair** she'd spent twenty minutes curling now seemed ridiculous. But something in her chest felt like possibility.

**maya:** omw

She grabbed her keys and her phone. The screen showed the group photo still—Alex grinning, surrounded by people. But the palm of her hand stopped sweating when she slipped the phone into her pocket. Some things you couldn't spy on from a distance. Some things you just had to show up for.