The Summer I Became Invisible

I'd been **spy**ing on Jasmine's Instagram stories for three hours straight, my face glowing blue in the dark of my bedroom. She was at some party, looking perfect, while I was stuck at my grandparents' farm for the summer – basically social suicide.

"Riley! Time to feed the animals!" my grandma yelled from downstairs. I groaned and dropped my phone like it burned me.

Outside, the Georgia humidity hit me like a wall. I grabbed the feed bucket and headed toward the pasture, trying to look as miserable as I felt. That's when I saw it – the **bull**.

He was massive, with horns that curved like scythes and a nose ring that glinted in the sun. My grandpa had named him "Buster" which was the most un-intimidating name ever, except Buster didn't care. He stared at me with eyes that said, "I know you're just a city kid who doesn't belong here."

I froze. My grandpa had told me to stay away from Buster, but the gate was open and the bucket was heavy and I wasn't thinking.

"Hey big guy," I whispered, taking a step forward. "Just here to –"

Buster lowered his head and pawed the ground.

I ran. I didn't think, I just booked it toward the house, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. I scrambled up the porch steps and collapsed, gasping for air.

My grandpa found me there, shaking so hard the wooden boards vibrated.

"Buster get a little too friendly?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"I almost died," I wheezed.

"Nah. Buster's all **bear** and no bite." He handed me a mason jar of sweet tea. "You just gotta show him you're not scared. That's the thing about fear – it can smell it on you."

I took the tea, still shaking. "I'm not scared of a stupid bull."

"Could've fooled me." He sat beside me on the porch swing. "You know, I was seventeen once, thought I had everything figured out. Thought I knew exactly who I was and where I was going."

"And?"

"And life surprised me." He patted my knee. "That's the thing about growing up – you spend so much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, spying on their lives through screens, you forget to actually live your own."

I looked out at the pasture. Buster was grazing peacefully, looking almost gentle from this distance.

"Tomorrow," I said, setting down the tea. "I'll try again tomorrow."

"That's the spirit," my grandpa said, but he was smiling.

That night, I opened Instagram one last time. Jasmine had posted another story – her and some friends laughing by a pool. I almost opened it, almost started my surveillance routine again.

Instead, I closed the app. Turned off my phone. Looked out the window at the stars.

Tomorrow, I'd face the bull. But tonight, I was done being a spy in my own life.