Battery Life

Maya's iPhone screen flashed 12% as the thunder rattled the windowpane. Great. Just great.

She was at Jake's party—actually the first party she'd been invited to all freshman year—and her phone was dying. The cable was tangled somewhere in the chaos of backpacks and hoodies by the door, lost between the Beats Pill and someone's retainer case.

"You good?" Jake materialized beside her, red cup in hand. His hair was that perfect messy that probably took twenty minutes.

"Yeah, just... battery's low." Maya felt pathetic saying it. Who cared about battery when Jake Morrison was talking to you?

"Same here." He pulled his phone from his pocket. 23%. "We should've brought portable chargers like responsible adults."

They laughed. It was that easy laugh that felt like lightning—sudden, bright, electricity crackling between them.

Outside, the storm intensified. Rain lashed against the glass. Then it happened—the power went out.

The room erupted in chaos. Someone shrieked. Multiple people simultaneously yelled their wifi was down. The Bluetooth speaker cut mid-song, leaving an echoing silence.

"Everyone chill!" Jake's voice cut through. "Emergency lights in the basement. My dad's got a generator kicking in, like, any minute."

Maya found herself in the sudden darkness beside him, their shoulders brushing. This was it. The moment every teen movie prepared her for. The blackout makeout session.

Instead, Jake said: "So, what's your deal? Like, actually?"

"What?"

"I mean, I see you in fourth period English, but you never talk. You're always on your phone."

Maya's face burned, grateful the darkness hid it. "I'm not always on my phone."

"Are too. You're like, chronically online. It's kind of intense." Then, softer: "My older sister says that's what everyone does now. We're all just... somewhere else."

A flash of lightning illuminated his face—he looked serious, not the party-Jake she'd expected.

"Maybe," Maya said slowly. "Or maybe I just don't know how to talk to people. Like, actually talk. Without memes as backup."

Jake was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out, found her hand in the dark. His palm was warm, slightly clammy.

"Practice on me," he said.

They talked through the generator's hum, through the emergency lights flickering on, through everyone else discovering their phones again. Maya's phone died completely at 8%—she watched it happen, felt something release.

By midnight, she didn't care where her cable was. She was too busy learning Jake's middle name (Anthony, hated it), his fear of spiders (ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED), and that he'd noticed her in English since September.

"Your phone," he said as her parents' car pulled up outside.

"Dead."

"Good." His eyes met hers, and this time the lightning feeling didn't come and go—it stayed. "Maybe leave it that way tomorrow? At lunch?"

Maya smiled, something unfamiliar and uncurated spreading across her face. "Maybe."