It was a calm Saturday morning, the kind where the sun filters softly through the trees and the world seems to move just a little slower. I had decided to go for a jog in the neighborhood park to clear my mind and stretch my legs. I laced up my shoes, popped in my earbuds, and took off down the familiar path lined with tall oaks and chirping birds. Everything was peaceful… until I noticed something strange.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. A faint sound—footsteps behind me—matched mine stride for stride. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was: Ashton. Why is Ashton running behind me?
Now, before you assume this is a story about romance or rivalry, let me clarify—Ashton and I go way back. We were neighbors since we were kids. He was always the adventurous type, climbing trees, daring others to races, and pulling off harmless pranks. I, on the other hand, liked my routines. So seeing him behind me on my peaceful jog was… unexpected.
At first, I waved. “Hey, Ashton!”
He didn’t respond, just kept jogging, a steady pace, maybe a few feet behind me.
Weird.
I slowed down a little to let him catch up, but he slowed too.
I sped up again. So did he.
Okay… now it was getting eerie.
I stopped completely. He stopped too. Not beside me, but still a few paces back. He looked away, pretending to check his watch.
I turned and called out, “Ashton, what are you doing?”
He paused, then grinned. “Just running.”
“Why behind me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He shrugged. “Good pace. You’re a solid pacer.”
Pacer? I wasn’t training for a marathon. I was just jogging off the stress of a long week. But something in his tone told me there was more going on.
I began running again, this time turning off the trail toward the hill that led to the forest’s edge. Let’s see if he really was just randomly pacing with me.
Sure enough, I heard his footsteps behind me once more.
“Seriously?” I muttered.
By now, my mind was racing faster than my legs. Was he playing a game? Following me for fun? Trying to prank me? Or—was something wrong?
I remembered a time in sixth grade when Ashton had tried to warn me that our science project was leaking baking soda all over the teacher’s desk. Instead of telling me, he followed me through the hallways whispering my name until I turned around, startled, and spilled the whole thing on the principal.
So maybe this was another weird way of trying to tell me something.
I stopped again, spun around, and confronted him. “Ashton. Cut the mystery. What’s going on?”
He looked sheepish for a second, then said, “Alright, fine. I need your help.”
That’s what this was about. I crossed my arms, waiting.
“I… might’ve lost something important,” he said.
“In the park?”
“In your backpack.”
I blinked. “What? My backpack? I don’t even have a backpack with me.”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “Yesterday. Remember when I dropped by your house?”
I did. He came by to borrow a charger or something. We chatted for a few minutes. Apparently, more happened than I realized.
“I dropped my journal,” he said quietly. “It slid into your bag when I was grabbing my keys.”
“Your journal?” I echoed.
He nodded. “Yeah. And it’s… got stuff in it.”
That explained everything.
“I didn’t even notice,” I said. “But why didn’t you just text me?”
He looked embarrassed. “Because… I thought if you’d seen it, and read it, you might think I was a total weirdo.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I think that?”
He hesitated. “Because a lot of it is about you.”
Oh.
That changed things.
Suddenly the running behind me, the awkward silences, the pacing—all of it made sense. This wasn’t just about a misplaced notebook. This was about feelings, confessions, vulnerability.
I took a breath, trying to stay grounded in the moment. “Ashton,” I said gently. “I didn’t read anything. I haven’t even opened the bag since yesterday.”
Relief swept over his face like a wave. “Really?”
“Really.”
He scratched the back of his head, looking both relieved and disappointed. “I guess I panicked. I didn’t know how to just come out and say it.”
“I can tell,” I said with a small laugh.
There was a long pause, the kind that feels heavier than it should.
“So,” I said slowly, “what if I had read it?”
He looked up at me, his expression suddenly serious. “Then I’d hope you wouldn’t be weirded out.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “Probably.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Probably?”
“I mean, you were following me like some kind of spy.”
He laughed, then raised his hands in surrender. “Guilty.”
I started walking, and he joined me this time—not behind, but beside me.
“So,” I said, “what is in that journal?”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “Mostly thoughts. Stuff I’ve wanted to say but didn’t know how. Observations. Dumb poems.”
“Poems?”
“Yeah, like one about the time you helped that stray cat, or the way your eyes squint when you laugh.”
Okay, that one hit different.
“I guess I didn’t realize…” I trailed off, not sure what to say.
“That I liked you?” he offered.
“Yeah.”
“Well, now you do.”
I stopped walking. So did he.
“You could’ve just said something,” I said.
“I was trying!” he exclaimed. “But I panicked and turned into some weirdo stalker-runner instead.”
We both burst out laughing, the tension finally breaking.
In the end, I returned the journal. Still sealed, still unread. But the contents were no longer a mystery. Not really.
Ashton didn’t have to run behind me anymore. From that day on, he ran beside me—and sometimes, when I slowed down, he matched my pace. Because maybe that’s what it means to care about someone: you don’t just chase them, you walk with them, side by side, breath by breath, step by step.
And honestly? I think that’s better than any poem.
