The Sphinx by the Pool

I stood by the edge of Tyler's pool, clutching my orange soda like it was a lifeline. The can had gone warm an hour ago, just like my social battery. Around me, the popular kids laughed and splashed in the water, their movements effortless and confident. Meanwhile, I was calculating the optimal time to bail without looking like a total loser.

"Hey, Maya!" Tyler called from the diving board. "Get in here! The water's perfect!"

I forced a smile. "Maybe in a bit!"

Truth was, I didn't want to get in. I didn't want to ruin my makeup or have everyone see me in a swimsuit next to girls who looked like they walked straight out of Instagram. My therapist called this social anxiety. I called it being painfully aware of my place in the high school hierarchy.

That's when I saw it—a sphinx moth, huge and dust-colored, fluttering near the pool lights. It kept throwing itself against the bulb, over and over, like it couldn't help itself. I watched it, mesmerized by its stubborn determination.

"What are you looking at?" someone asked behind me.

I jumped. It was Tyler's cousin, Leo, who I'd been crushing on since freshman year. He held an orange slice, juice dripping down his fingers. "That moth," I said, feeling stupid. "It's been hitting that light for like, five minutes straight."

Leo watched the sphinx moth for a moment. "You know, sphinx moths are supposed to be symbols of transformation," he said quietly. "They start as caterpillars, then they go into this dark phase in their cocoon, and when they come out, they're completely different."

He turned to me, and for the first time all night, I felt really seen. "Maybe you're in your cocoon phase, Maya. But you won't be there forever."

The sphinx moth finally flew away from the light, circling toward the garden. I looked at the water, at my orange soda, at Leo's hopeful smile.

"Wanna show me where that garden is?" I asked.

And for the first time that night, I didn't feel like watching from the edge anymore.