Dead on My Feet

I felt like a zombie at Maya's party, standing in the corner with my red baseball cap pulled low, watching everyone else live actual lives. The bass thumped through the floorboards, and people were dancing, laughing, existing with this effortless confidence I couldn't fake. I'd spent forty-five minutes perfecting my outfit—this vintage hat, the one that made me feel like maybe I could be interesting too—but now it just felt like a costume.

Then I saw Jake.

Jake, who played varsity baseball and had this smile that could restart a dead heart. He was across the room, wearing that same faded jersey he'd worn to every game this season, the number 12 peeling at the corner. He was laughing with someone else, head thrown back, completely in his element. Something twisted in my chest—not quite jealousy, but this hollow awareness that I was watching life happen from the sidelines again.

My cat, Luna, had more game than I did. She'd strut around my neighborhood like she owned everything, demanding pets from everyone, unbothered and authentic. Meanwhile, I was seventeen and still didn't know how to exist at a party without feeling like I was performing.

Then Jake looked over and caught my eye.

Panic flared hot and immediate. I couldn't do this. I couldn't cross that room and pretend to be casual, couldn't fake small talk about nothing, couldn't risk him seeing through everything. So I did what I do best—I bolted.

I pushed through the sliding door into the backyard, past people smoking and talking, and then I was running, full sprint, away from the house and the music and Jake's stupid perfect face. The night air hit my lungs, cool and sharp. I kept running, past three more houses, until my chest burned and I had to stop, bent over and gasping.

A stray cat watched me from a porch, its eyes glinting in the streetlight. It tilted its head, judging me.

"Yeah, I know," I said between breaths. "I'm a mess."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably Maya wondering where I'd gone. Probably Jake asking about me. Probably nothing, actually—maybe no one had noticed at all.

I sat on the curb and adjusted my hat, waiting for my heart to stop hammering. The distant bass from the party thumped like a second pulse. Luna was probably asleep on my bed right now, completely unbothered, completely herself.

Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd stop running. Tomorrow I'd actually talk to him. Tomorrow I'd figure out how to be a person who didn't flee at the first sign of something real.

But tonight? Tonight I sat there under the streetlight, letting myself be exactly this: alive, afraid, and absolutely terrible at being seventeen.