The Summer I Stopped Running

The carnival air smelled like funnel cake and desperation. I stood there in my vintage band tee, feeling like a total poser while everyone else looked like they'd stepped out of a TikTok feed.

"You gonna stare at the sphinx cat all day or actually say hi?" Jordan said, appearing behind me with that annoyingly perfect grin. The hairless cat sat in its cage like an alien who'd given up on escaping this planet, all wrinkled and weird and somehow completely unbothered by its own nakedness.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just appreciating the aesthetic, you know?"

"Right." Jordan leaned against the booth, their faded baseball cap backward. "Same way you were 'appreciating the aesthetic' during gym when we had to play that disastrous game of baseball? You literally stood in the outfield picking dandelions."

My face burned. "In my defense, sports aren't exactly my vibe."

"What IS your vibe, Maya?" Jordan asked, and the question hit harder than it should've. "You're always running from stuff. The actual running team you quit after two days. The art club you signed up for then bailed on. Me—" Jordan stopped. "Never mind."

The carnival spun around us, lights blurring into streaks of pink and gold. A kid in a bear costume shuffled past, the mascot head too big, stumbling like they'd given up on being graceful too.

"I'm not running from you," I said softly, finally meeting Jordan's eyes. "I'm just... figuring stuff out. Trying to not feel like I'm bearing the weight of everyone's expectations, you know? Like, who decided that at fifteen we need to have our whole personality mapped out?"

Jordan's expression softened. "The sphinx cat doesn't seem to care what anyone thinks."

"That's because it's a cat, Jordan."

"Fair." Jordan laughed, and it was this sound that made something in my chest feel lighter. "Hey, you want to get out of here? There's this spot by the creek where the fireflies show up like crazy around dusk. No sports, no audiences, just... hanging out."

The bear mascot waved at us as we walked away, and I waved back.

Maybe sixteen wasn't too young to figure out that the scariest thing wasn't being weird or naked or different—it was letting someone see you trying. And for the first time in forever, I wasn't running. I was just walking, next to someone who didn't need me to be anyone but exactly who I was.