Digital Zombies Don't Sleep

Maya stared at her iphone, thumb hovering over yet another Instagram story. 2 AM. Again. The blue light painted her face in ghostly shadows as she lay in bed, heart racing from the endless scroll. She felt like a zombie—moving through her days on autopilot, trapped in the digital hunger for likes, comments, validation that never quite filled the void.

Her phone buzzed. Someone posted something. Someone else liked something. The cycle never stopped.

"Maya? You up?" Her mom's voice through the door. "You need those vitamin supplements before school, or you'll crash again."

"Yeah, coming," Maya lied, thumb still scrolling. Junior year was eating her alive. Between AP classes, cross country, and maintaining her aesthetic online, she was running on caffeine and desperation.

A soft weight landed on her chest. Barnaby, her ancient golden retriever, sniffed her face with concerned brown eyes. Then came the familiar thump-thump-thump of paws—Luna, her sister's cat, jumping onto the bed. The animals had developed a nightly routine: the dog intervention squad.

Barnaby nudged her phone with his wet snout, effectively ending the scroll session. Luna curled up by her feet, purring like a tiny motor.

"You guys are better than people," Maya whispered, burying her face in Barnaby's fur. "People don't get it. They think everything's supposed to be perfect all the time."

She thought about lunch earlier. Her friends had spent the entire period curating their trays for photos, discussing which angles made them look skinnier, complaining about whoever wasn't sitting with them. Meanwhile, Maya had forgotten to eat, too busy stressing about a chemistry test she hadn't studied for because she'd been editing a caption for three hours.

Her iphone screen lit up again. Another notification. Another thing demanding her attention.

Maya set it on her nightstand. Face down. She curled around Barnaby, listening to Luna's steady purr, feeling her heartbeat finally slow down. For the first time in months, she actually thought about tomorrow without feeling like she wanted to throw up.

Maybe tomorrow she'd eat lunch with her friends without caring about the photo. Maybe she'd wear that oversized sweater she loved but thought made her look "basic." Maybe she'd just... exist.

Barnaby sighed contentedly. The dog knew things were going to be okay. That's what dogs did—they knew stuff before you did yourself.