The Truth About Riley

I've been running every morning since sophomore year. Not because I particularly enjoy gasping for air while my legs feel like jelly, but because it's the only time I can actually think without my phone blowing up. Plus, cross country looks good on college applications. My mom's whole vitamin D deficiency lecture echoes in my head every time I skip a day, which is basically never.

So when I saw Riley's car parked at the trailhead at 6 AM on a Saturday—when Riley hates mornings and definitely hates cardio—I stopped dead. Riley, my best friend since we were six, who'd been MIA all week, dodging my texts with weak excuses about being busy.

I thought about just jogging past, playing it cool. But my feet had other plans, carrying me toward the picnic area where Riley was sitting on a table, alone.

"What are you doing here?" I called out before I could second-guess myself.

Riley jumped like I'd caught them doing something illegal. And maybe they had—there was a notebook open, pages filled with... handwriting? My handwriting?

"Were you literally spying on me?" I asked, half-laughing because the alternative was feeling completely weirded out.

Riley's face turned that shade of red that only happens when you're beyond embarrassed. "It's not what it looks like."

"Because it looks like you've been copying my English journal entries. Which is creepy, even for you."

"I'm not copying them," Riley said quietly. "I'm trying to figure out how to write like you."

I stopped. "What?"

"Mrs. Chen said my college essay has no voice," Riley continued, staring at their sneakers. "Everything I write sounds like a robot trying to sound human. And you—everything you write sounds like you. Even the dumb stuff."

The silence stretched between us, filled with birds waking up and my still-racing heart.

"So you've been... studying me?"

"Not spying. Just... observing. Like inspiration." Riley finally looked up. "Your vocab's insane. Your metaphors actually make sense. I just thought if I could understand how you do it, maybe I wouldn't be staring at a blank page every night."

I thought about all those times I'd felt jealous of Riley—perfect grades, natural talent at everything, parents who didn't obsess over vitamin supplements and college apps. Meanwhile, I'd been running myself into the ground trying to be enough.

"Dude," I said, sitting next to Riley on the picnic table. "You could've just asked. I'm not exactly gatekeeping my writing secrets."

"I didn't want you to think I was pathetic."

I looked at the notebook—my messy sentences analyzed like artifacts, with notes in the margins about sentence structure and word choice. It wasn't creepy anymore. It was kind of... flattering?

"You're not pathetic," I said. "You're just a bad friend for ghosting me all week instead of saying 'hey, can you help me with my essay?'"

Riley laughed, and some of the tension in my chest I hadn't even noticed loosened.

"So..." Riley nudged my shoulder. "Want to go for a run and then you can explain your metaphor choices?"

"I hate running with people. You know this."

"I'll buy you breakfast after."

"Fine. But you're carrying both our phones."

We started jogging side by side as the sun came up, and I realized something: maybe I wasn't the only one who spent way too much time worrying I wasn't doing enough. Some people just made it look better than others.