Run-Book 1 of Distance Series

Chapter 1: Trip Down South

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.

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'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.

But no, I'm lying here, face-down in the dirt, because of her.

HER.

Me.

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 should've seen it coming. I always do. The faceplant, the dirt, the disappointment. It's just part of the cycle. Fall down, get back up. Rinse, repeat. But it never gets easier, and the sting never really fades.

I wipe the mud 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 track, away from Parker Springs High. The sun is setting behind me, casting long, orange shadows across the prairie. It's hot—one of those sticky September days where the air feels thick, heavy. Like the world's pressing down on you, daring you to breathe.

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.

Mom? She'd 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.

I keep 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.