Bear Mode On

The iphone 12's lock screen stared back at me—five missed texts from Maya, all variations of "where are you??" I swiped left, panic rising like tide water. Tonight was the lake house party of the semester, and I was currently hiding in the bathroom, clutching my childhood bear like a emotional support animal. At seventeen, this wasn't exactly the vibe I was going for.

"You good in there?" The door creaked open. Jenna, Maya's older sister, leaned against the frame. "Maya's doing shots without you."

I shoved Mr. Cuddles behind my back. "Fine. Just—battery died."

"Lame excuse." She stepped closer, clocking my bear anyway. "Wait, is that—"

"Yes. Don't."

Her laugh was surprisingly kind. "Dude, my cat still sleeps with me every night. We're all messes here."

The anxiety knot in my chest loosened. From outside, I heard familiar electronic music pumping and someone screaming about jumping in the lake.

"You got a cable?" I asked, gesturing at my dead phone. "Need to text my mom before she freaks."

"Marcus has like seven in his car. Come on." She paused. "And leave the bear. He'll be fine."

I set him on the counter—this fuzzy, ridiculous witness to my lowest moment—and followed her out. The party hit me like physical force: bodies pressed together, the smell of cheap perfume and lake water, everyone moving to some rhythm I'd never quite understood.

Maya found me immediately, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "FINALLY! We're doing cannonballs!"

"I don't have a suit—"

"Skinny dip!" Someone yelled. No, thanks.

But then I saw it—Marcus's phone connected to a portable speaker, and beside it, a tangled nest of charging cables like something from a sci-fi movie. I grabbed one, plugged in, watched the battery icon flicker to life.

"We doing this or what?" Maya was already running toward the water.

I looked at my phone. Three texts from my mom. Two from my dad. And then—unexpectedly—from Maya, sent ten minutes ago: "It's okay if you don't want to swim. Just come hang."

Maybe I didn't have to cannonball. Maybe I could just—exist.

The phone buzzed in my hand. Not a text. An alarm I'd set months ago and forgotten: "BEAR MODE ON" in all caps, a reminder my little sister had programmed as a joke before she moved out. Be brave. Be ridiculous. Be okay with being both.

I pocketed the phone and followed the sounds to the dock, where half my class was already in the water, screaming at something below the surface.

"What? What is it?" I asked, reaching the edge.

"Just a fish!" Maya laughed, surfaced like something from a horror movie, hair plastered to her face, grinning like she'd never been happier. "Get in here!"

And maybe it was the cable still dangling from Marcus's speaker, or the bear waiting in the bathroom, or the way Jenna had known exactly what I needed—but I jumped.

The water was cold as shock, but when I surfaced, Maya high-fived me. Someone yelled "FINALLY," and Jenna nodded from the edge, like she'd been waiting for this moment longer than I had.

Later, dripping and shivering, I retrieved Mr. Cuddles from the bathroom. No shame left. Just the strange, perfect knowledge that I could be the person who brought a stuffed bear to a party AND the person who jumped in a lake in their clothes, and neither thing made me less worth knowing.

The iphone read 2:47 AM. Six unread texts. I typed back to Maya first: "Best night of my life."