The doors to Mall of America slid open like a portal to a different world — one where I wasn’t defined by hospital gowns or whispered hallway glances.

Instead, I was surrounded by polished floors, skylights three stories above, and the unmistakable hum of Camp Snoopy just beyond the food court. Somewhere, a little kid squealed as the log chute splashed down, and the smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels hung in the air like a warm invitation. The overhead speakers played a faint remix of Kiss from a Rose by Seal, and the tiled echo of weekend shoppers buzzed around us like static.

“Ready?” Maya asked, dangling a pair of jeans in front of me.
She wore a denim jacket with buttons on the collar — one said “Save Ferris” and another was Lisa Simpson holding a protest sign.

I took a step forward. The spinny world of Snoopy’s roller coaster lights flashed in my peripheral vision. The smell of buttery popcorn mingled with cinnamon pretzel wafts.

“Yes,” I whispered.

We navigated through throngs of shoppers toward Bloomingdale’s — one of the big anchors on the south end. Inside, the women’s clothing section was a world apart: neat rows of pastel blouses, skinny-legged jeans in sizes unknown to me, and tags that said 5, 7, 9 — not small, medium, large.

A mannequin nearby wore a lime-green windbreaker over a cropped tee that said Angel in glitter. Everything felt glossy, like stepping into an issue of Teen People.

Maya pulled a pair of dark-wash jeans and a simple white tee from a rack.
“Start here,” she said. “Something neutral.”

I nodded, slipping into the changing room — cold air and bright light washing over me. The door creaked as I shut it behind me. My hands shook as I buttoned the jeans.
They fit. Not too tight. Not too loose — like they almost belonged.

I stepped out. Maya’s eyes softened.
“Looks good,” she said simply.

Next, we hunted for tops. I picked out a few — a pale blue scoop-neck tee, a soft gray cardigan. There were more adventurous options, too — sheer tanks with spaghetti straps, tiny floral crop tops — but I passed those for now.

At one point, I looked into the central atrium at Camp Snoopy, its tiny coaster cars winding by smiling kids. The Paul Bunyan log ride splashed down again in the distance. I thought of the rides I used to take with Garrett and Jess, unaware of what I might feel like now if I tried to ride it again.

My heart squeezed.

But Maya squeezed my hand. “Let’s grab those jeans for now, okay?”

We rounded a corner into Sears. I lost count of how many times Maya said, “What about this?” or “Just try it.” It felt like being coached — gentle but persistent. She held up a cute ribbed vest at one point and a tan jacket that looked like it belonged in Clarissa Explains It All.

Finally, I emerged holding a pair of fitted khaki pants.
“They’re… okay?” I asked, unsure.

Maya smiled softly. “More than okay.”

I could feel the eyes of a few shoppers as we carried our items toward the checkout. Nothing loud. Just looks.

A teenage girl with crimped hair and frosty blue eyeshadow turned to glance at me once, then quickly turned back. An older woman in a floral blouse gave us a pause-and-blink kind of stare.

But it didn’t matter.

Because today, I chose to try.

****

The bag handles were digging into my fingers by the time we walked into Camp Snoopy. Even inside a giant mall, it still felt like its own world — pine trees (which were really real), cartoon statues, the laughter of kids echoing under the glass roof. Somewhere, the little train clanged around the corner with its slow, steady rhythm. Its bell rang out in that familiar, old-timey way that always reminded me of Christmas, even in June.

Kids in bright windbreakers ran past us holding giant plush Snoopy. A dad pointed toward the ferris wheel with a camcorder on his shoulder, the strap bobbing with every step. The air carried the smell of fresh popcorn, fried dough, and the faint rubbery scent of freshly washed rides.

“I used to come here with my cousins,” Maya said, nudging my shoulder gently. “Like, the summer it opened. We’d ride the log chute ten times in a row.”

I smiled. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

We wandered through the rides, past the Kite-Eating Tree and Paul Bunyan’s Log Chute. The animatronic Paul gave a slow, goofy wave as a log boat floated by beneath him, soaked riders shrieking and laughing. The air smelled like corn dogs and rubber. People bustled around us, but for a second it felt still — like we were kids again. Or like I was trying to remember how to be one.

“Wanna sit for a minute?” Maya asked, pointing to a bench near the carousel.

I nodded, grateful. My feet were sore. Or maybe I was just worn out from trying so hard to feel okay.

We sat side by side, bags at our feet, carousel music drifting through the air like some slow lullaby. The horses moved in time to a tinny version of Rainbow Connection, their painted eyes glossy under the overhead lights.

“You’re different now,” she said quietly after a while.

I stiffened a little. “You mean how I look?”

“No,” Maya said quickly. “Well, yeah, but… not just that. It’s like you’re… softer. But stronger too. I don’t know. It’s weird. In a good way.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond. So I just looked out at the carousel instead — watched the painted horses go around and around in slow, dizzy circles. A little girl in jelly sandals waved at her mom each time she passed, the same goofy smile lighting up her face again and again.

Maya leaned in a little closer.

“Today was fun,” she said. “Even if it was awkward. I’m glad I got to be the one with you.”

I smiled. “Thanks for helping me. I probably would’ve ended up buying, like, socks and nothing else.”

She laughed. “You’d make them work. Somehow.”

There was a pause — not uncomfortable, just long enough to notice. Her hand brushed against mine on the bench. She didn’t move it away right away.

I didn’t notice.

I was too busy watching the carousel.
It spun lazily beside us, its painted lights blinking against the glass ceiling. Laughter and music drifted through the air, distant and dreamy. The skylights above shimmered with late afternoon light, filtering down like a hazy spotlight through floating dust motes.

Maya shifted just a little closer on the bench, like she was trying to get comfortable — or maybe just closer to me.

She reached down, adjusting one of the shopping bags with her toe. “You know… that cardigan you picked? Kinda perfect on you.”

I gave a half-laugh. “You picked it.”

“Yeah, but you made it look better than the mannequin,” she said with a grin.

I looked at her, confused. “It’s just gray.”

She smirked. “Gray’s not the point, genius.”

I shrugged, not getting it. “Well, thanks, I guess?”

Her smile lingered longer than it probably should have, eyes tracing my face for a moment too long. Then she quickly looked away, pretending to check the time on her cheap watch. The numbers glowed dull green on the digital screen, the kind that beeped every hour and came from the kiosk between the food court and Radio Shack.

“You ever think maybe this version of you was always in there?” she asked, voice casual but with a weight tucked just underneath.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head. “I mean… maybe this isn’t new, exactly. Maybe it’s just finally… visible.”

I didn’t know how to answer. My chest tightened in that weird, twisty way it did when I didn’t understand how I was supposed to feel. I looked back at the carousel instead. The little girl waved again, and this time her mom waved back with both arms.

Maya nudged me again, this time more playful. “C’mon, you really don’t see it?”

“See what?”

“That you’re—” she hesitated, cheeks pinking just a little, “—kind of cute like this?”

I laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

Maya just smiled and looked away again, lips pressed together in a way that said nope, not messing.

But I didn’t catch that part.
I was too busy trying to figure out who the heck I was becoming.

****

We left Camp Snoopy through the north walkway, passing a giant statue of Lucy holding a “The Doctor is In” sign. The fiberglass looked a little faded under the overhead lights, her plastic grin stuck in that smug, all-knowing expression.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at it.
“Should’ve stopped there earlier,” I muttered. “Might’ve saved everyone the trouble.”

Maya laughed softly beside me. “You’d probably sass her. Get kicked out of your own therapy booth.”

The crowd thinned as we walked, the distant sound of rides fading behind us. The mall felt less like a theme park again — more like what it was: a monument to shopping and food courts and fluorescent lighting.

We passed a kiosk selling Beanie Babies and Tamagotchis, their digital faces blinking blankly from behind smudged plastic. Someone walked past carrying a Claire’s bag stuffed with glitter scrunchies and nail polish that smelled like bubblegum.

I glanced into the reflection of a shop window as we passed. The girl looking back still felt unfamiliar. She moved like me. Held the bags like me. But there was a softness in her frame I didn’t recognize. Her eyes looked too big for her face. My face.

I looked away.

“You okay?” Maya asked, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her butterfly clip was starting to slip, catching the light in a prismatic sparkle as it bounced.

“Yeah,” I said automatically.

We walked a little further before she spoke again. Her voice was careful — light, but not too light. “You know… if this is who you’re becoming… it’s not a bad thing.”

I frowned a little. “You mean because now I get to join the long list of people who are constantly confused and terrified?”

Maya chuckled. “No. I mean because… I think she’s kind of amazing.”

I stopped walking for a second, caught off guard. “What?”

Maya looked at me — really looked — eyes soft but certain. “I just mean… I see you. And I like what I see. That’s all.”

My heart stuttered a little, but my brain scrambled to deflect.

“I’m wearing jeans and a flannel,” I said, shrugging. “Hardly a fashion icon.”

She smiled. “Yeah. But somehow you make it work.”

I looked away again, cheeks hot. “You’re really bad at compliments.”

“No, you’re just really bad at hearing them.”

We stood outside the main entrance now, the parking lot ahead glowing under the amber mall lights. Sodium vapor lamps buzzed above us, casting everything in a soft orange haze. A few shopping carts clanked somewhere in the distance, pushed by a bored teenager in a Super Kmart vest.

Maya reached out and gently tugged one of the shopping bags from my arm, lightening my load.

“Anyway,” she said with a casual shrug, “if I were into girls… I’d totally have a crush on you.”

I froze.

Maya kept walking.

My brain stalled for a second — trying to piece together what she meant, whether it was a joke, a test, or something else. I caught up with her a moment later, heart racing for reasons I didn’t understand.

“Wait, you are into girls,” I said dumbly.

She gave me a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Exactly.”