Thunder in Our Veins

Mateo's legs burned as he kept running, each step a rebellion against the quiet suburban street. Three AM was for secrets, and tonight his secret weighed five ounces in his pocket.

"You good, bro?"

Maya appeared beside him, matching his stride like she'd been there the whole time. His best friend since seventh grade, when she'd pantsed him in gym class and then apologized with a stolen snickers bar. Some bonds formed in chaos.

"Could ask you the same," Mateo wheezed. "Why are you out here?"

Maya pointed upward. The sky had gone purple-veined, clouds gathering like rumors before a fight. "Storm's coming. figured I'd catch it."

They slowed at the old water tower, their spot since freshman year. The place where Maya had taught him to roll a joint and he'd taught her it was okay to cry after her mom left. Where they'd mapped out futures they were too scared to chase.

Mateo pulled the envelope from his pocket. Stanford. Early admission. The letter that would ship him three thousand miles away next fall.

"You got it, didn't you?" Maya said softly. She already knew. She always knew.

Lightning cracked—the kind that makes your bones hum. For a second, the whole neighborhood lit up like a flash photograph, exposing everything: the water tower's rust, Maya's mascara-streaked face, the truth between them that had been running like an undercurrent since homecoming, when she'd rested her head on his shoulder and neither had pulled away.

"I can't go," Mateo said, and the confession tasted like copper. "Not if you're—"

"Stop." Maya stepped closer. Rain started falling, big dramatic drops that belonged in a music video. "You think I came out here to talk you out of your dream? You think I'm that friend?"

"What are you saying?"

Another flash of lightning. In that electric instant, Maya grabbed his face with both hands. "I'm saying go. And I'm saying come back. And I'm saying that colleges have breaks, and phones have FaceTime, and we're not fourteen anymore."

She kissed him in the rain, and it wasn't like the movies. It was awkward and nose-bumpy and perfect, all teeth and urgency and three years of almost.

When they pulled apart, breathing hard, Mateo laughed. "So we're doing this? Long distance? Whatever this is?"

"We're running toward it," Maya said, grinning. "Not away."

Lightning struck again, closer this time, but neither of them moved. Some things were worth getting burned for.