Cowboy Hat at Midnight

I felt like a zombie. First week of sophomore year and I'd already pulled my first accidental all-nighter, doom-scrolling until 3 AM then staring at my ceiling until the alarm screamed at 6:30.

But I was wearing the hat.

My dad's old Stetson, the one I'd stolen from his closet that morning. A beaten-up brown cowboy hat that smelled like cedar and bad decisions. I looked ridiculous. I looked amazing. I couldn't decide which.

"Nice accessory, Harper," Chaz called from his locker. "Halloween's in October, just so you know."

His friends laughed. That synchronized laugh that made my stomach twist.

"Y'all done?" I shot back, channeling way more confidence than I actually felt. "I'm expressing myself. Look it up."

"Expressing what? That you're a poser?"

"That I don't care what you think." I adjusted the hat. "Also, your hairline is expressing itself too. Early."

Dead silence.

Then – someone giggled. Then someone else. Chaz turned the color of a bad sunburn, but honestly, I was too exhausted to process what I'd just said. My brain was running on fumes and caffeine.

"Bull," Chaz said, recovering. "You're just trying way too hard."

"Maybe." I shrugged. "But at least I'm trying something."

The bell saved me. I zombie-walked to first period, head ducked low, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest. But when I caught my reflection in a classroom window – hat slightly crooked, dark circles under my eyes, looking completely unhinged – I didn't hate it.

I looked like someone who was figuring things out. Messily. Publicly. Without apologizing.

First period hadn't even started and I'd already survived my first standoff. Maybe being a zombie wasn't the worst thing. Zombies kept going, right?

I tipped my hat at my reflection.

Yeah. This was going to be okay.