Washed Clean

Marcus's iPhone 13 buzzed against his thigh—third notification this minute. The group chat was blowing up.

"U COMING???"

"dude party starts in 10"

"she's gonna be there"

Marcus groaned. Jake's text about the girl was just another manipulation. Last week Jake had convinced Marcus to buy those sketchy energy vitamins from some guy behind the gym—supposedly "game changers" for cross country. They'd spent three days throwing up behind the bleachers while Jake insisted they were "just detoxing."

"Bullshit," Marcus had said finally. "This is bull, Jake. And you know it."

Jake had looked away first.

Now Marcus stood at the edge of Lake Harriet, watching kids from school pile onto the dock for the end-of-summer bash. The sun dipped below the tree line, painting everything in bruised purples. His phone lit up again: another desperate plea from Jake to come, to be seen, to participate in the performance.

Marcus weighed the phone in his hand. This thin rectangle of glass and light had become his whole life—every friendship, every joke, every crush filtered through its glow. He was tired of performing. Tired of the vitamins, the bullshit, the constant curation.

The water looked dark and infinite. No filters needed.

He pulled off his sneakers, then his socks. The dock wood was warm beneath his bare feet.

His phone vibrated one more time—Jake calling now.

Marcus pressed decline.

Then he tossed his iPhone into his shoe and sprinted toward the edge.

The water hit him like a revelation—cold shocking him awake, washing away the sticky heat of the performance, the toxicity of fake friendships and poisoned vitamins. He broke the surface gasping, grinning, free.

Somewhere on the shore, his phone buzzed in his shoe. Marcus ducked under again, letting the silence swallow him whole.

For the first time all summer, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.