The gun cracked like lightning, and Sophie exploded from the blocks as if gravity had finally released her. My body jolted to attention, muscle memory pulling me into place. I crouched, heart hammering, hands trembling slightly at my sides. The wind scratched at my face, and the burnt rubber of the track mixed with sweat and sunscreen to form the unmistakable scent of competition. Run on the outside, run on the outside, I repeated in my head, a prayer against failure.
My eyes locked on Sophie’s pounding strides. She was all legs and motion, fists slicing the air with ferocity. I was too scared to blink. I counted her steps. My own legs twitched, coiled. My mouth was dry.
She hit the mark. GO. I launched forward.Four steps. My hand snapped behind me, fingers spread wide. Please, please, SLAP.
The baton met my palm like a struck match: quick, hot, igniting something deep in my chest. I ran. Every ounce of rage, joy, fear, and love poured from my legs into the ground. The air felt like fire, the pounding in my ears silencing the crowd completely. I sprinted like I owed someone everything. Lily waited ahead. Her shadow jolted forward as I closed the distance. I kept counting. Our hands would pass like clockwork.
She took off. Her hand reached back on the inside, perfect. My arm shot out. CLACK. Clean.
She vanished ahead of me, eating up the curve. I dropped into a gasp, lungs tearing open, vision swimming. I bent over, hands on knees, but still followed her movement with my eyes. She was light. Then she wasn’t alone.
Michelle waited. She bounced on her toes like a caged panther, jaw tight, eyes fierce. Sophie appeared beside me. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her shoulder brushing mine. We didn’t speak. Lily hit the mark, and Michelle took off. The baton changed hands. Everything narrowed to that final stretch. Michelle against another runner: taller, leaner, but not meaner.
They were stride-for-stride. Every breath the crowd took was mine. I clenched Sophie’s hand without knowing it. Our teammates screamed. I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear anything. Michelle was flying. But so was the other girl. Twenty meters. Ten. Five.We knew before they crossed.Our heads dropped in unison. Second. Not first.
Second place. First losers, some would say. We didn’t move for a moment. Our bodies frozen in the ache of what could’ve been. And then the wave hit. Cheers. Tears. Hugs. We surrounded Michelle, our beast. Our anchor. She gave everything. We all did. And it was over. Years of morning practices, bus rides, shin splints, arguments, sweat-slicked-high-fives, huddled prayers, and whispered pep talks at the line. Over. This was the last time I’d ever wear this uniform. The last time I’d feel the baton slap against my palm from Sophie’s perfect start. The last time I’d time my breathing to Lily’s steps. The last time I’d watch Michelle blaze down the final hundred like our lives depended on it. I broke.
The tears came fast and uncontrollable, hot on my cheeks and sticky in the crooks of my neck. Not just from loss, but from love. We had made it to state again. Three years in a row. We had become a force. An unspoken rhythm of trust and precision. And now it was ending. Not because the season was over, but because I was moving. Tomorrow. Utah.
I never wanted to go. No one asked if I was ready. My dad’s new job wasn’t a family discussion, it was an announcement. Boxes started appearing in the garage like unwanted guests. Furniture wrapped like mummies. Goodbyes were scheduled. I tried to ignore it. I told myself maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe we could wait until after graduation. But reality was cruel. Cold, like the air that hit your lungs too hard during winter workouts.
Leaving wasn’t just changing schools. It was letting go of who I was. These girls were more than teammates, they were my mirrors, my support beams. When my world cracked, they were the duct tape that made me whole. I didn’t want to be brave. I didn’t want to start over. I didn’t want to leave a team that had taught me everything about resilience. But the truth was: life won’t pause when you’re not ready.
That night, I sat on the floor of my half-empty room, medals tangled on the floor beside me. I held the relay baton we’d all signed freshman year after our first state placement. Michelle had drawn flames around our names. Sophie added glitter glue. Lily wrote a Bible verse. I wrote, “Next year: first place.” And we were so close.
I stared at that baton for what felt like hours. I remembered every race. Every false start. Every handoff fumble we worked to fix. The singular time I disqualified us. Every extra lap we ran as punishment for goofing off. Every time someone wanted to quit and didn’t. I realized something then. This wasn’t a loss. It was the truth. Hard work doesn’t always look like gold. Sometimes it looks like sweat-soaked socks, vomiting, tears, and second place. Sometimes it’s getting your heart broken by a finish line. But every handoff was a testament. Every perfectly-timed sprint proved something.
We had poured ourselves into this relay, brick by brick, lap by lap. And second place? It didn’t mean we failed. It meant we competed. It meant we pushed the best teams to their limits. It meant we were a threat, and we always would be. Even if I wasn’t there next year.
The next morning was too bright. The sun streamed through my blinds like it didn’t know I was grieving. I got into the car slowly, fingers trailing along the frame of the door. We pulled away from the curb, and the lump in my throat stayed steady; the pit in my stomach weighed tons. I watched my neighborhood disappear behind me, one mailbox at a time.
I didn’t say anything for the first hour of the drive. I clutched the signed baton in my lap like a relic. Like it might dissolve if I let go. Eventually, I rolled the window down. The dry wind hit my face, and I closed my eyes. The air moved fast against the window, beating terribly in my ears. I could still feel the texture of the track under my spikes. Still hear Sophie’s holler. Still see Michelle’s shoulders straining for that final push. I would carry those girls with me wherever I went, because the race didn’t end at the finish line. It continued, in memory, in character, in the quiet strength I’d grown through years of repetition and disappointment and joy. Hard truths shape us, just like hard work. And sometimes, second place is what you need to understand what matters most, not the tallest spot on the podium, but the people who ran with you.
***
***
The ManifestStation publishes content on various social media platforms many have sworn off. We do so for one reason: our understanding of the power of words. Our content is about what it means to be human, to be flawed, to be empathetic. In refusing to silence our writers on any platform, we also refuse to give in to those who would create an echo chamber of division, derision, and hate. Continue to follow us where you feel most comfortable, and we will continue to put the writing we believe in into the world.
***
Our friends at Corporeal Writing are reinventing the writing workshop one body at a time.
Check out their current online labs, and tell them we sent you!
***
Inaction is not an option,
Silence is not a response
Check out our Resources and Readings
