Dead Tired

My brain felt like actual mush—straight-up zombie mode. Three hours of sleep because TikTok decided I needed to watch 47 videos in a row about whether my crush likes me back. Spoiler: he doesn't.

"You look dead," Maya said, slamming her tray next to mine in the cafeteria. "Like, actually deceased."

"Thanks, bestie. Really boosting my confidence right before the swim meet."

The bull in our school's mascot costume—some sophomore whose name I definitely didn't know—shambled past our table. His massive foam head kept listing to the left like he was about to faceplant into someone's mystery meat.

"That's gonna be you in the water today," Maya continued, brutally helpful. "Except without the giant head to hide your exhaustion."

I pushed my tray away, stomach doing nervous little flips that had nothing to do with lunch. Today was the 400-meter freestyle—my first time swimming it competitively. The distance felt massive. Impossible. I'd been staring at the pool schedule for weeks, psyching myself out.

"What if I literally drown?" I lowered my voice. "Like, not metaphorically. What if my body just decides NOPE and I sink to the bottom like a tragic stone?"

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I worried they'd get stuck. "You've been swimming since you were five. You're not gonna drown. You might come in dead last, but you won't die."

"Your faith in me is overwhelming."

She grinned. "I'm coming. I'll bring those disgusting sports drinks you like. The ones that taste like radioactive blue raspberries."

The pool was already chaos when we arrived—smell of chlorine so strong it practically evaporated your boogers, parents with massive cameras, teammates doing weird stretches that looked like they were auditioning for a yoga video.

My event got called. Poolside, my heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. The water looked deceptively calm, like it wasn't about to become my personal torture chamber.

"You got this," someone yelled from the stands. Probably Maya. Hopefully not that bull mascot guy.

The whistle blew.

I dove.

The first 200 meters weren't terrible. I found my rhythm, breathing every three strokes, my body remembering what it was supposed to do. But somewhere around the third lap, that zombie feeling crept back in. My arms felt like lead. My lungs burned.

I'm gonna quit. I'm gonna literally just stop swimming and let them fish me out with that giant pole they use for retrieving lane dividers.

But then I thought about Maya making fun of me for giving up. I thought about practicing all those mornings when it was literally dark outside. I thought about how much I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something hard.

So I kept going.

My last lap was ugly. My technique was garbage. But my hand slapped the wall, and I gasped for air like I'd never tasted oxygen before.

"Third place," the timer said. "Not bad, kid."

I pulled myself out of the water, legs trembling, and Maya was there with that awful blue drink.

"You did it," she said, actual pride in her voice. "Also, you look slightly less dead now."

I chugged the toxic blue liquid. "I'll take it."