Unspooled

The vitamin gummies sat on my nightstand like colorful accusations. Mom's latest phase—"wellness hacking" she called it. I'd been choking them down for three weeks, supposedly to boost my energy for track tryouts. Mostly they just made my tongue turn weird shades of orange.

"You'll thank me when you're crushing those laps," she'd said at breakfast, already on her third matcha latte.

Now I was standing at the edge of the school track, my stomach doing gymnastics. Coach Miller was calling names like she was picking teams for dodgeball. I'd transferred from homeschooling three months ago, and I still felt like I was walking around wearing someone else's skin.

"Marcus! You're up!"

I stepped up to the starting line, my new running shoes squeaking against the rubber surface. Beside me, Tyler—track star, girlfriend-haver, owner of a jawline that could cut glass—stretched his calves like he was filming a commercial.

"Hey, homeschool," he muttered. "Try not to eat it out there."

I clenched my jaw. Coach blew the whistle, and we took off.

My body knew what to do, even if my brain didn't. Running was the one thing I'd actually done back home—mostly to escape Mom's endless questions about my social development. Wind in my face, legs pumping, everything else fading into background noise.

But then my brain kicked in. What if I tripped? What if I was slow? What if I came in last and everyone—

Something snapped. Literally.

My foot caught something, and suddenly I was eating rubber. My knees skidded across the track, and a collective groan rippled through the group. I pushed myself up, my face burning hotter than the sun.

Then I saw what I'd tripped on. A thick black cable, snaking across the track from the media equipment. Someone had left it there, probably setting up for Friday's football game.

Tyler was already yards ahead, not even looking back.

Coach Miller jogged over. "You okay, Marcus?"

I nodded, wiping dirt from my palms. But inside, something shifted. That stupid cable had ruined my moment—or maybe it had saved me. I'd been so busy worrying about being perfect, about being the person everyone expected me to be, that I'd forgotten how to just... run.

I stood up, dusted off my knees, and started again. Not because I had something to prove. Not because Mom's vitamin gummies were supposed to make me faster. But because the wind felt good on my face, and for the first time in months, I wasn't worried about who was watching.

The next morning, I poured the whole bottle of vitamin gummies into the trash. Mom would flip, but that was a problem for future me. Present me had a track to conquer—and this time, I was running for myself.