Electric Bones

The goldfish was floating again. Third time this month. I stared into the bowl, wondering if fish could get depressed, or if it was just me projecting because I was currently spiraling about tonight.

"You're not actually going, right?" Jen asked, already knowing the answer.

"Fox invited me personally," I said, trying to sound casual. "Can't just ghost them."

She snorted. "Fox invites everyone personally. That's their whole brand. They're like, generically charming. It's literally their superpower."

She wasn't wrong. Fox moved through sophomore year like they'd hacked the social code—equally at home with theater kids, athletes, the ones who vaped behind the gym. Everyone. Meanwhile, I'd spent the last three years successfully avoiding parties, conversations, and pretty much any situation where I might have to, like, speak without planning it first.

My dog Barnaby whined at my feet, sensing my anxiety like always.

"I know, buddy," I said, scratching behind his ears. "But I have to do this. I'm seventeen and I've never been to a party. I'm basically a grandma."

The party was exactly what I expected: too loud, too many people, flashing lights that made my chest tight. I hugged the wall, nursing a soda that was getting warm, watching Fox work the room like they'd been born for it. Laughing at someone's joke, tilting their head, touching arms. They were magnetic, and I was just... there.

I slipped outside, needing air. The backyard was quieter, strings of lights crisscrossing above the patio. And okay, it was kind of beautiful.

"Hiding too?" a voice said.

Fox. Of course. They were sitting on the porch steps, nursing something that looked like tea.

"Just... taking a break," I managed.

They scooted over. "Your dog seems cool. From your Insta."

"You checked my Instagram?"

"Maybe." Fox's smile was different out here—less practiced, more real. "I like that you post about him. It's not just aesthetic. It's like, actually genuine."

Outside, lightning cracked across the sky, followed by thunder that shook the ground. The storm had been building all evening.

"I should probably go," I said, even though I didn't want to.

"Or," Fox said, "we could just stay out here. Away from the noise. Talk about stuff that's actually real. Like why you looked like you were five seconds from bolting when you arrived."

Something in my chest unfurled. "Socially anxious weirdo."

"Same," they said, so quickly I laughed. "You think I naturally know what to say to all those people? I'm literally scripting conversations in my head constantly. It's exhausting."

We sat there as the rain started, talking about everything and nothing. About my fish that kept dying because I couldn't stop caring too much. About how Fox felt trapped by everyone's expectations of them being the social glue.

When my phone buzzed—Jen asking where I was—I almost didn't check.

"You should stay," Fox said, not looking at me. "I mean, if you want. We could watch the storm from the roof."

I looked at this person I'd been half-obsessed with for months, who I'd assumed was completely out of my league, who was just as weird and anxious as me.

"Yeah," I said, and I could feel the electricity between us, had nothing to do with the lightning. "Yeah, I'd like that."