Three Miles and a Goldfish

Marcus hated running. Okay, maybe hate was strong—it was more of a complicated frenemy situation. His dad had signed him up for cross country because "structure builds character" (whatever that meant), and now Marcus found himself jogging through the park at 6 AM while normal teenagers were sleeping.

"Come on, Marc!" his teammate Maya yelled from ahead, already a solid hundred yards ahead. She was the kind of person who actually enjoyed this stuff.

Marcus's gym bag thumped against his hip with every step. Inside: the ridiculous neon hat his mom bought him ("for sun protection, sweetie!"), a spinach smoothie that had separated into something resembling pond scum, and his daily vitamin gummies that tasted like artificial fruit punch and existential dread.

At home, his goldfish Fishburne swam in lazy circles, living his best aquatic life without a care in the world. Marcus envied him. Fishburne didn't have to worry about tryouts, or fitting in, or the fact that his body was basically one giant awkward phase.

"You good, man?" Maya had circled back. Embarrassing.

"Yeah," Marcus wheezed. "Just... pacing myself. Strategic."

"Right." She fell into step beside him. "My cross country coach says we're all running from something. Some people run toward goals, others run away from stuff. What's your deal?"

Marcus thought about it. The hat in his bag—wearing it would mean accepting that he was That Kid with the ridiculous neon hat everyone would notice. The spinach smoothie his healthy-obsessed mom insisted would "make him grow big and strong." The vitamin gummies he secretly actually liked but pretended were just another chore.

"I think," Marcus said between breaths, "I'm running toward figuring out who I am when nobody's watching."

Maya nodded like this made total sense. "Deep." Then she grinned. "Also, I'd rock that hat. Neon's in."

They finished the loop, Marcus pulling the hat onto his head. It was hideous. It was perfect.

At home, he fed Fishburne. The fish did a little flip. "We're both working on ourselves," Marcus told him. "Small steps."

He drank the spinach smoothie. It was still terrible. Some things don't change. But maybe that was okay.