The Summer of Running Wild

The summer before sophomore year, my mom decided I needed more vitamin D in my life and signed me up for swim team without asking. 'You're pale as a ghost, Maya,' she said, shoving a bottle of orange gummies at me. What I actually needed was to disappear.

First day at the pool, I stood there in my too-tight swimsuit while everyone else looked like they'd been born in chlorine. There was this girl, Riley — all effortless cool and easy laughter — who kept watching me like I was some kind of alien species. I spent the entire practice avoiding eye contact and pretending I knew how to do a flip turn. Spoiler: I absolutely didn't.

After practice, I was cutting through the woods behind the rec center when I saw it — a fox, bright orange and completely unbothered by my existence. It paused, looked me dead in the eye like it knew something I didn't, then trotted off into the pines. I stood there frozen, weirdly seen.

The next morning, Riley caught me behind the bleachers, replaying the moment. 'You look like you're trying to summon a spirit,' she said. I cracked up, and just like that, we were talking. Turns out she was dealing with her own stuff — her parents were divorcing, and swimming was her escape from the tension at home. We started running together after practice, legs burning and lungs screaming, talking about everything and nothing. She taught me that nobody actually knows what they're doing, and that's kind of the point.

We'd spot the fox sometimes, watching us from the edge of the woods like a tiny orange guardian. My cat, Luna, was not impressed with my new athletic phase — she'd glare at me from the couch like I'd personally betrayed everything she stood for. But I didn't care. For the first time in forever, I didn't feel like disappearing. I was finally showing up — for myself, for Riley, for whoever Maya was becoming.