When the Sky Split Open

The summer I turned fifteen, I learned that courage isn't something you find — it's something you fake until it becomes real. I was working at Camp Pine Ridge, nursing a crush on Sarah from the softball team, when my counselor handed me the job nobody wanted: overnight watch at the remote cabin.

"You'll be fine," Marcus had said, tossing me a bottle. "Take your vitamin — keeps the energy up." The pills were probably just sugar, but I swallowed them anyway because I'd already agreed to this nonsense.

Then the dog showed up. Some stray golden retriever that must've escaped from a neighboring farm. She followed me up the trail, tail wagging like she'd known me forever. I named her Luna because the moon was huge that night, and having her there made me feel like less of a coward.

Around 2 AM, I heard branches snap. I grabbed the baseball bat Marcus had insisted I bring — something about "just in case." My heart hammered against my ribs as a massive shadow emerged from the trees. An actual bear. Not Winnie the Pooh cute, but the kind that could absolutely end me.

Luna growled. The bear huffed. I stood there holding a baseball bat like an idiot, realizing I'd never been more terrified in my entire life.

Then lightning split the sky — crack, boom, everything white. The bear bolted. Luna hid under the porch. I didn't move. I couldn't. But as the storm broke open, something in me broke too. I'd faced down a freaking bear and survived. What was I so afraid of the rest of the time?

The next morning, Sarah found me asleep on the porch with Luna curled against my legs.

"You survived the night?" she asked, grinning.

"Barely," I said, then told her everything — the bear, the lightning, how I'd almost peed myself.

She laughed, but not in a mean way. "That's honestly pretty hardcore, Marcus."

We've been dating for six months now. Sometimes courage is just standing your ground when every instinct screams run. And sometimes it's admitting you were scared the whole time.