Sometimes, you gotta go big. Push past the bullshit, the obstacles, and the voices in your head telling you to stop. Just keep running. Eyes on the finish line, don't look back.

It's not like I'm trying to win anything—it's just practice. But you'd think I was training for the Olympics with how many times I've gone down this same old path.

That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

But then, it happens. You can't run anymore. Your legs give out, and before you know it, you're slamming face-first into the ground. And just like that, everything falls apart.

I could practically feel it coming, like the tragic rerun of tonight's episode. But knowing it's coming doesn't make it any easier.

I'm not even surprised. This happens every time. One minute, I'm on the edge of something—maybe not greatness, but something—and the next, I'm eating dirt. I was almost at the finish line, too. Almost there.

It's like I'm cursed or something. Doesn't matter if I focus, if I tell myself just this once—I'll still find a way to screw up every practice. The other girls always like graceful deer, leaping over roots, sidestepping puddles as if they had a map and compass for each muddy pothole. Me? I get every root, rock, and hidden dip on the course, handed to me like personally signed invitations to taste the ground. I swear it's not just bad luck; it's like my legs forget how to work halfway through. Even if I have a steady pace, even if I'm focused, something always trips me up. Literally. 

And that puddle today? Just the latest episode in my personal highlighted scrapbook of blunders. I knew it was there, saw the others prance around the outskirts of the grassy patch around it, like it was nothing. Yet, as soon as I got close, my body decided it had other plans. I tripped, flailed, and basically belly-flopped into it, like I'd missed the memo on basic coordination. Honestly, it felt like I'd accidentally signed up for an exclusive version of cross-country. All that was missing was the spa music and maybe a cucumber slice for my bruised pride. Practically a mud spa's most valued customer—just some cosmic joke. The universe's way of saying, Nice try, but not today.

Therefore, I'm lying here, face-down in the mud, because of her.

HER.

Me.

But it's not just clumsiness. There's something else—something strange—about me. It started when I was young, moments that felt like déjà vu mixed with a whisper of control over the world around me. Weird, small stuff. A cup of juice falling from the counter that I somehow caught midair without thinking or spilling. Or the way I'd know the exact number of jellybeans in a jar before counting. It only got stronger. Some days, I swear I can see things before they happen, or stop them, even for just a heartbeat. And when I freeze time, it's as if everything around me holds its breath, and I'm the only one who knows the punchline of a joke no one else hears.

But that's the thing… it's random. And moments like these happen when I am stuck living throughout a scene. I wish I could press skip on the recording, and get to the part where the main character has one of those action scenes.

The laughter starts as soon as I hit the ground. It's not loud, but I can hear it. My teammates, a few feet away, doubled over, slapping each other on the back. Faceplant again. Screwed up again. Same old joke.

I push myself up, spitting out a mouthful of grit. My cross-country uniform, bright green and white, is dark now, drenched in sweat and streaked with dirt. The raccoon mascot stamped across my chest stares out at the world, but right now, I am the raccoon. Dirty, tired, and looking like I just crawled out of a garbage heap.

I knew this would happen. I could almost see it before it did—the burning in my lungs, the weight of my body slowing, the slap of my face against the dirt. My body never lets me forget. It's part of the pattern: run, fall, get up. Repeat. But even when I know the script, the sting is just as sharp. The laughter still cuts the same, and I can never shake the feeling that I'm doomed to be the girl who faceplants her way through life.

I wipe the grime from my face and glance at the finish line. It's so close, but it might as well be miles away. My legs are trembling, every muscle in my body screaming for me to stop, but I push forward. I cross the line dead last. No one bothers to notice. They've already moved on.

It's not like this is new. High school's just been one long blur of running and falling, over and over again. Running from them. From her. From everything.

But this time, it feels different. Like something snapped when I hit the ground.

I grab my bag and start walking, forcing my legs to carry me away from the field, away from Parker Springs High.

It didn't help that today was one of those suffocatingly humid September days, where the heat just sits on you like a heavy, damp blanket. The kind of day where even the air feels like it's weighed down, thick with the smell of sun-baked dirt and wild prairie grass. Out here, in the middle of farm country, there's nothing but open fields and the occasional sway of corn stalks. Every breath felt like dragging in soup. The sun was dropping behind the hills, casting this hazy orange glow across the prairie, and the whole world looked like it was melting in slow motion. All around, the cicadas droned, loud enough to make my head buzz, almost drowning out the distant shouts of the other girls sprinting ahead. I could feel the sweat pooling down my back, my cross-country uniform sticking to me like cling wrap. By the time I hit that mud patch, I was already drenched, so slipping into that giant puddle just added insult to injury. It was like the ground was trying to swallow me whole, the mud thick and warm, coating me in the earthy grime of a place that I swear has it out for me. Welcome to Parker Springs, where even the land itself is rooting for you to faceplant.

The rain from days ago had settled into the land, refusing to be forgotten, leaving the air heavy and humid, clinging like an unshakable weight. Out here in Parker Springs, the water didn't just drain away; it soaked deep into the soil, lingering in the low spots and turning them into perfect traps. Every step on the trail was like walking over a swamp, with patches of mud that seemed to spread and multiply overnight. The moisture was trapped under this relentless sun, steaming up the prairie, like a slow cooker of thick, sticky air. It felt like the earth itself was sweating, holding onto the last bit of that thunderstorm and turning the whole trail into a mess of mud patches just waiting for someone to stumble into. And, of course, that someone was always me.

I should go home. But I can't. Not yet. I don't want to deal with the usual, How'd practice go? I can already picture Dad's face when I walk in, covered in mud, my uniform clinging to me like a soggy second skin. He won't say much, just give me that look, the one that screams, You could've tried harder. To him, there's no such thing as bad luck. If you fall, it's because you didn't put enough effort into staying on your feet. No shortcuts, no half-assing it.

When I was ten, right around the time I started… noticing things, Dad's disappointment settled in like dust that never quite gets wiped away. My actions didn't freak him out the way they did Mom—he just stared, frown deeper than the Grand Canyon, like he wished I was normal. Meanwhile, Mom would shield me with that soft smile of hers, the one that tried to say, I get it, even though she couldn't. I think she wanted to believe it was just a phase, but deep down, she knew I wasn't like other kids, nothing my siblings seemed to inherit anyway. I was the family's special little puzzle piece that didn't fit.

Mom would try to buffer it, like always. Her voice soft, saying, She's doing her best, even though we both know it wouldn't stop Dad's silent judgment. It never does. She'd probably offer me some burnt attempt at dinner to smooth it over—a casserole, tomato soup—something, while avoiding the look in his eyes.

And of course my siblings were too young to even chime in. Barely past the crawling stage.

I kept walking, my feet dragging through the gravel, the weight of today hanging over me like a storm cloud. I'll face them eventually, but not yet. Not now.

The street ahead of me stretches out, darkening as the sun dips lower. It's the kind of scene you'd expect to see on the cover of some cheesy road trip postcard: endless prairie, the sky burning orange at the edges, and a few scattered clouds like smudges in the distance. But right now, it's just a reminder of how far I am from everything I want to leave behind.

I turn down Main Street, where the neon signs buzz faintly in the cooling air. There's the Blockbuster, its big blue-and-yellow logo glowing dimly in the fading light. Next to it, the arcade—its windows covered in posters for Galaga, Ms. Pac-Man, and Asteroids. I catch sight of a few kids outside, heads down, fumbling with their Walkmans, the cords from their headphones a tangled mess. They're carefree, totally lost in their own world of games and music.

I wish I could be them. No voices, no weight. Just the simple joy of blowing through quarters at the arcade, trying to beat a high score. When I was younger, this used to be my spot. I'd hang here for hours, playing Donkey Kong and Pac-Man until my fingers went numb. I was good, too—could've gotten my name on the leaderboard if I hadn't been so distracted by everything else.

I could spend hours in there, quarters stacked by the screen, the world outside disappearing as I sank into the rhythm of the games. It was simple: beat the level, beat the boss. No weird powers, no judgment, just a joystick and me against the machine. My own world where everything made sense. Now? Now, I can't even remember what that kind of peace feels like. It's like I've forgotten how to tune out the noise—the voices, the laughs, the endless chatter about being special that's followed me since I was a kid.

But things are different now. She showed up. And everything changed.

It was third grade when they started calling me special. Not the kind of special like She-Ra or Optimus Prime—heroes who save the day. No, it was more like a warning, like I was different in a way that made people uneasy. Something that couldn't be fixed by a G.I. Joe episode where the good guys always win. They saw me as an outsider. By fourth grade, I was already speaking Greek and Latin, pulling words out of some hidden place in my brain I didn't even know existed. My first words came straight out of a dictionary. Not "mama" or "dada"—nope, I went for the complex stuff. "Syzygy." "Ephemeral."

It freaked people out. Including my parents.

By the time I got to middle school, it wasn't just languages. I could feel it—something more. Something strange. Like the world was on a different wavelength for me. Things would light up. My hands would glow faintly when I wrote, almost like I was channeling something. I knew things before they happened. Little things, like knowing the phone was going to ring before it did, or seeing the score of a baseball game before the announcers said it on TV.

I never told anyone. What was I supposed to say? "Hey, I can predict random shit and glow in the dark sometimes." Yeah, that would've gone over great.

But the weirdest part? Time. I could stop it. I could freeze everything around me, watch people hang in the air, frozen in the middle of a step. I'd move around, touch things, see things from every angle. Then I'd let it play again. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But I wasn't.

And then there was her.

She showed up when the glowing started. When I first realized I was different. I was ten, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at my math homework. My mom was making grilled cheese and tomato soup. I remember the smell—thick, sour. The tomato soup was burning on the stove, turning black at the edges of the pan. Happy Days reruns played faintly from the living room, Richie and Fonzie laughing it up while my world was falling apart.

That's when it happened. My hand lit up, glowing like it was on fire, but there were no flames. Just light.

I blinked, thinking I'd lost my mind. That's when I heard her for the first time.

You're different. You know that, don't you? The voice, soft but sharp, cut through my thoughts like a knife.

I shook my hand, hoping to make it stop, but the light didn't go away. That's when I knew. I was special. But not in the good way.

"Shut up," I mutter under my breath now, shoving the memory away. I don't need her voice dragging me down right now. Not with the day I've had.

Eventually, I end up at 7-Eleven. The neon sign hums overhead, flickering like it's about to give up. I push open the door, and the blast of cold air hits me hard—freezing, almost violent against the sticky heat that's been suffocating me all day. The place smells like stale nachos, and something that might've been pizza a few days ago. But none of that matters. I'm too thirsty to care.

I walk straight to the drink station, grab a cup, and fill it with water. I gulp it down in seconds, the ice-cold liquid rushing down my throat, burning in that good way. I should stop. I should leave.

But I'm still thirsty.

I fill another cup and down it just as fast. The world feels a little less overwhelming with cold water in my system, but it's not enough. I can still feel the exhaustion tugging at me. Still hear her whispering at the back of my mind.

The guy behind the counter barely notices me. He's too busy scratching off lottery tickets, eyes flicking over to the blonde standing at the Slurpee machine. She looks like something out of a Playboy ad—long legs, short skirt, big hair like Madonna in a music video. He's practically drooling, his attention glued to her, not to me.

Perfect.

My legs move before I even think about it, and I'm suddenly behind the counter, popping the register open like I've done it a thousand times. My hand brushes the bills, and I hesitate, hearing her voice again. You really shouldn't be doing this.

But I shove it away. It's not like he'll miss it. Besides, I tell myself, I'm not stealing—just taking his future stolen winnings. If he's dumb enough to think those lotto tickets are his ticket out of this place, that's his problem. I'm just speeding up the process.

I stuff the cash into my pocket. Easy. Too easy.

And yet, I'm still thirsty.

I grab another cup of water on my way out the door, not looking back, the night air cooler now as it brushes against my skin. The 7-Eleven guy will probably notice the register is lighter in a few minutes, but I'll be long gone by then.

Still here. Still Parker Springs. Still stuck in this life.

Next stop: McDonald's.

I step inside, the smell of grease and fries hitting me like a punch to the gut. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly glow over everything. It's nearly empty, except for Joe, the guy behind the counter. His ginger hair sticks out awkwardly from under his paper hat, bright against the dull backdrop of the restaurant. His classic McDonald's uniform—red and yellow stripes, high-waisted brown pants—makes him look like a fast-food comic strip character, but not in a flattering way.

I drop into a booth, the hard plastic seat creaking under me. My body's heavy, weighed down by sweat and the weight of today's failure. I pull out the cash I grabbed from 7-Eleven, crumpled bills in my sweaty palms, and start counting it out, mumbling numbers under my breath.

"Twenty-five... fifty... seventy-five... where the hell is that quarter?" I dig through my pockets, looking for the missing change. Joe must have heard me muttering because, next thing I know, he's standing in front of me, holding out a cup of water. His awkward smile is stretched across his face like it's on autopilot.

"You looked thirsty," he says, offering me the cup like it's the most precious thing in the world.

"Thirsty?" I raise an eyebrow, trying to pull myself together. "Nah, man, I'm starving. What I need is a Big Mac, large fries, a Coke, and..." I pause, letting the moment hang in the air like I'm about to make some grand revelation. "An apple pie. You know, for balance."

Her voice slides in, smooth and sarcastic. Balance? Right. Because what your life really needs is another deep-fried disaster—

"Shut up," I snap quietly, cutting her off before she can finish.

Joe blinks, a little taken aback by my sudden intensity, but he doesn't say anything. He just fumbles with his notepad and scribbles down my order, his hands shaking a little. His smile falters for a moment before he adjusts his glasses and manages a nervous chuckle.

"Name for the order?" he asks, glancing up at me from behind those giant glasses—as if he didn't already know from school.

"Ignis," I say, flashing him a grin. "Like fire."

He nods, scribbling it down before turning back to the counter. As he walks away, I lean back in the booth, the plastic seat squeaking under me. Doofus couldn't even remember our name. Nice! I stare out the window at the darkening streets, the flickering streetlights casting long, jagged shadows on the pavement. The world outside looks empty, like everyone has already gone home and locked the doors.

I should feel guilty about the money. I should feel guilty about everything. But I don't. Not really. The guilt train left Parker Springs a long time ago—probably right around when I decided I wasn't stealing, just borrowing from the universe. A little extra cash for all my hard work covered in smut.

Ha. I guess I should feel bad about snagging a handful of bills from the register, or for grabbing that Big Mac without sparing Joe a glance. But let's be real—does the world really care about one more screw-up in Parker Springs? Fat chance. I'm not even a blip on the radar. In my head, the voice I can't stand mutters something snide about karma, but screw that. Guilt is for people with something to lose. All I've got is this stupid raccoon mascot staring up at me, daring me to get up and fall down again.

The truth is, I've been running on empty for a while now. Running, falling, and getting back up. Over and over again. And for what? To prove to Dad that I'm not a total screw-up? To show my teammates that I'm not the walking disaster they think I am? None of it matters. Not when I'm stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, drowning in a sea of expectations I never asked for.

Her voice creeps back in, soft this time. You can keep running, but you're never going to outrun this. You know that, right?

I don't answer. I just sit there, staring out into the empty night, waiting for the food that won't fix anything.

After a few minutes, the McDonald's guy calls my name. "Order for Ignis? Big Mac, large fries, Coke, and... an apple pie."

I stand up, grab the tray, and toss a couple of crumpled bills onto the counter. He gives me a half-hearted smile as I hand him more than what's needed, leaving a tip that feels heavier than it should. I don't bother counting the change—what's the point?

I head back to the booth, setting the tray down with a thud. I take a fry and shove it into my mouth, the salt stinging my dry lips. The food is warm, greasy, and tastes like a small piece of heaven in an otherwise hellish day.

As I eat, the world outside gets darker, the last traces of sunlight fading from the sky. The streets are empty now, except for a few distant cars and the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead drones on, adding to the hollow quiet of the nearly empty restaurant.

My mind wanders as I tear into the Big Mac, the flavors dull against the backdrop of my thoughts. I think about the race earlier, how close I'd been to finishing without screwing up. How close I'd been to not faceplanting for once. I think about the way my teammates laughed, the way they always do. How I'm never the one who gets to cross the line looking strong.

And then I think about her.

Her voice cuts through the silence in my head, the edge of it sharp and biting. You really think you're ever going to get away from me?

I swallow hard, the greasy food sitting like a weight in my stomach. I don't answer her this time. What would be the point?

I finish the last of the fries and wipe my mouth with a crumpled napkin. I should leave. I should get out of here, start walking home, and face whatever's waiting for me there. But I don't move. Not yet.

Instead, I sit there in the fluorescent glow of the McDonald's, staring down at the tray in front of me. My reflection in the grease-smeared surface stares back, tired and a little lost. A raccoon after a storm.

I glance up at the clock on the wall. It's late. Really late. I've been here too long.

Finally, I stand up, grab my bag, and head for the door. The McDonald's guy gives me a small wave as I leave, like he's trying to make up for the fact that I barely spoke to him.

I push open the door and step outside into the cool night air. The streets are dark, the city asleep, and it feels like I'm the last person left awake.

The world is quiet again. Too quiet.

Her voice is still there, waiting in the back of my mind, always lurking.

I start walking.

I should turn around. Head back. But my feet stay planted, like they're stuck to the ground.

I stare out at the dark fields, my chest tightening. The wind rustles through the tall grass, whispering secrets I can't quite catch. I wonder, briefly, what it would feel like to just keep walking, straight into the nothingness. Disappear into the night. Let the world forget me.

You could. The voice slides back in, sharp now. No one would notice. They already forget you exist most of the time.

I clench my fists in my pockets as a red Ford cruises by, followed closely by a bright yellow Dodge, the headlights briefly lighting up the empty road ahead. The cars speed past, oblivious to me, like I'm not even there. The colors blur together in my mind, each one a reminder of how fast everything is moving while I stay stuck in place. Red, yellow, black—Fords, Dodges, Chevys. Everyone has somewhere to go, and yet here I am, standing still.

I close my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper to myself, as if saying it out loud might make it true.

I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, and then, slowly, I turn around and start walking back the way I came. Back toward town, back toward whatever mess is waiting for me. The night stretches out ahead, dark and quiet, and the wind carries her voice, always with me, always there.

As I make my way back into town, the flickering streetlights and neon signs from the 7-Eleven and McDonald's come back into view. The hum of the neon lights echoes in my ears as I walk past the now-familiar curve of the 7-Eleven sign, resisting the urge to glance inside to see if the cashier has noticed the missing cash.

I don't stop.

Instead, I head toward McDonald's, where the lights are still on, and the kitchen hums quietly in the back. Joe—the ginger-haired guy who gave me my order earlier—is still behind the counter, scratching his head as he leans against the register. His pale skin practically glows under the fluorescent lights, the red of his hair clashing with the yellow of his uniform in a way that makes him look like a walking fast-food poster. He doesn't notice me pass by this time, and that's fine with me.

I keep walking, my mind still racing from everything that's happened tonight. The sounds of the night seem louder now—the distant rumble of engines, the chirping of crickets hidden in the grass, and the soft whisper of the wind that carries with it the promise of another restless night.

But there's no escape. Not from her.

Not from me.

My mind heavy with everything that's been piling up inside me for what feels like forever. The town feels abandoned, like everyone else has gone inside for the night, locked their doors, turned off their lights, and left me wandering out here alone.

Every time I'm close to something real, there's that faceplant waiting for me. I run, I fall, and just like that, I'm back where I started. It's like the world's daring me to get up again, taunting me with the same finish line that I never quite reach. But somehow, I do it every time. I get up, brush off the dirt, and tell myself that maybe, just maybe, the next run will be different. Because what else is there? I may be the raccoon of Parker Springs, but at least I'm still here. Still trying.

It's not like I have anywhere I really need to be. No finish lines left to cross tonight.

The sound of my sneakers hitting the pavement echoes against the quiet. The streets stretch out in front of me, long and dark, only interrupted by the occasional flicker of a streetlight. My stomach is full, but there's this gnawing emptiness inside that the Big Mac didn't come close to filling.

You're never going to outrun this, that voice slithers back into my thoughts. You can try, but you'll always fall. Always.

I clench my fists in my pockets, pushing back against that creeping voice that never gives me a second to breathe.

The houses I pass blur together, their windows dark, their yards quiet. The world feels so far away, like it's closed off from me. Or maybe it's the other way around. Either way, I'm on my own out here. I pass the old movie theater on the corner, the one with the burnt-out sign that hasn't shown anything but Ghostbusters and Back to the Future reruns for months. The posters are faded, curling at the edges from being left too long in the sun.

It's moments like this when everything feels... suspended. Like I could pause the world, just like I used to when I first realized I had that strange ability. Freeze time, walk through this dead town while everything stays stuck in place, the people frozen mid-step, mid-breath, mid-laugh. And then I'd let time flow again, like nothing had happened.

But even that lost its magic after a while.

I kick a stray rock on the sidewalk, watching it bounce and disappear into the gutter. My mind keeps turning back to the race, the way my legs gave out on me, the way the ground met my face like an old enemy. I can still feel the sting of the dirt, the echo of laughter hanging in the air.

You're a joke. You know that, right? the voice whispers, soft and venomous.

"Fuck off," I hiss under my breath, my voice barely more than a whisper.

The air is getting colder now, biting through the thin fabric of my sweat-soaked uniform. The green and white of my cross-country shirt clings to me like a second skin, darkened by mud and sweat. I should've changed, but I didn't. I should've done a lot of things.

The quiet streets blur by as I keep walking, not really caring where I'm going. Just anywhere but home. The idea of walking into the kitchen, seeing Mom trying to salvage whatever burnt meal she's whipped up this time, and Dad sitting in the living room with that ever-present disappointed look—it's just too much. Especially, if one of the little ones make the whole house rattle with the shakes of their screaming. I'd rather be out here, alone with the cold air, the dark streets, and her voice gnawing at the edges of my mind.

I glance up and spot the familiar curve of the old 7-Eleven sign in the distance, glowing faintly in the dark. My footsteps slow as I approach it. I've been here already, took what I needed, but part of me feels like I should go back. Maybe just to see if the guy behind the counter noticed what I did. See if he's sitting there, scratching his head, wondering where his future stolen winnings went.

But I keep moving.

I don't need to check. I don't need to go back. What would be the point? I got what I wanted. And yet, there's this nagging feeling pulling at me, like I should feel something about it. Like I should care more. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. But there's nothing. Just this hollow emptiness that refuses to go away no matter how much I stuff inside it.

You're not a thief, the voice says, soft this time. You're just lost.

I clench my jaw, shoving the thoughts away, but they stick like tar.

The town starts to thin out as I head further away from Main Street, the buildings growing sparser, the lights fewer and farther between. The world around me is turning into shadows, the houses getting smaller, the fields stretching out in front of me like endless black waves under the moonlight.

I stop when I reach the edge of town. There's nothing beyond this point but prairie, stretching as far as the eye can see. It's the kind of place where people go to be forgotten, where you can hear your own thoughts bounce off the quiet and ricochet back at you.

I should turn around. Head back. But my feet stay planted, like they're stuck to the ground.

I stare out at the dark fields, my chest tightening. The wind rustles through the tall grass, whispering secrets I can't quite catch. I wonder, briefly, what it would feel like to just keep walking, straight into the nothingness. Disappear into the night and hide. Let the world forget me.

You could.. No one would notice. A mutter taunts like the cheese traps of poison, left for the mice of the prairie. Only a matter of time for some thrill.

I close my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on me. 

"I'm going anywhere," I yell, more to myself than to her "like a midnight train!"

I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs. And then, slowly, unfreeze time as if it was paused like a song needing to be written as an unfinished journey.

Restarts as a movie, towards the busier streets, glowing with streetlights and people, away from whatever emotions are holding me back. The boulevard stretches out, shadows disappear and the wind of the city carries her voice, always with me, a small-town lonely girl.

Then there's a flicker—a strange shiver in the air, like something out there is waiting. The night feels charged, like the whole world is daring me to keep going, to follow whatever's pulling me out there. It's got me wondering if maybe, for once, I should. It doesn't feel like the usual quiet. It's deeper, like a hum just below hearing. I shake it off, blaming it on my mind playing tricks. But there's something about the night, like a promise hanging just out of reach, a whisper daring me to keep going south, down to the lake shore where the city burns, and everything is wild, alive, and waiting.

Flowing south down the lake shore to reach he, who wanted his fire to ignite her away.