Track Marks

The bull session started like every other Friday night in Maya's basement—six of us cramped on the futon, passing chips, pretending we weren't all checking our phones every thirty seconds. I'd been **running** track since seventh grade, my legs perpetually sore, my Thursdays consumed by intervals my coach claimed would 'separate the wolves from the pups.' Whatever that meant.

'So,' Sarah said, voice deliberately casual, 'I heard Jordan's planning to ask someone to spring fling.'

My stomach did that thing—that actual physical lurch, like I'd missed a step on stairs. Jordan, who sat two rows ahead in AP Bio. Jordan, whose laugh sounded like sunlight hitting glass. I'd perfected the art of being the **spy** in my own life: watching from the periphery, gathering intel without ever risking engagement. His Instagram story views? I knew the exact count. His coffee order? Large cold brew, two pumps vanilla. The fact he'd been wearing the same gray hoodie every Friday for three weeks? Noted.

'That's such **bull**,' Marcus said, stealing a handful of chips. 'Who would even say yes to Jordan Collins?'

The basement air thickened. Sarah shot Marcus a look that could strip paint. I examined my cuticles like they held the secrets to cold fusion.

'Some people might think Jordan's,' Sarah paused, 'actually kind of great?'

Marcus snorted. 'If you like boys who wear their tragic backstory like a cologne.'

I wanted to disappear. Not quietly—spectacularly, like I'd never existed at all.

'Tragedy builds character,' someone mumbled.

Monday morning, Jordan walked into AP Bio wearing a different hoodie. Blue, this time. He looked like someone who'd finally slept through the night. Our eyes caught for one second—one actual, measurable second—before I looked away, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The bell rang. Coach was waiting for laps after school.

Some things you outrun. Some things you carry with you, mile after mile, until you're strong enough to stop running and just stand still, breathing, while the world happens around you.

I was getting there. Slowly.