Electric Friday Night

Jordan stared in the mirror, frizzy **hair** doing anything but cooperating. The beanie was supposed to be a fashion statement, not a desperate cover-up job. But whatever. It was fine. Everything was fine.

"You've been pre-gaming with **vitamin** C since Tuesday," Jordan's little brother jeaned from the doorway. "You're not gonna get sick from one concert."

"Shut up, Tyler." Jordan grabbed their phone—dead. Again. The charging **cable** had been acting shady all week, frayed at the connection point like their nerves.

Tonight was supposed to be legendary. Skylar's cousin knew the bouncer at The Warehouse, which meant VIP access for their friend group. THE friend group. The ones Jordan had spent freshman year watching from across the cafeteria, convinced they were operating on a completely different frequency.

Then came sophomore year and the assigned seating in bio, and suddenly Jordan was IN. Officially. But honestly? Sometimes it felt like playing character in a movie they didn't audition for.

The Uber dropped them off three blocks away (sketchy parking situation, apparently). Jordan could hear the bass from here—**lightning** thrumming through their sneakers, making their chest vibrate.

"You coming?" Maya called, already halfway to the entrance, her perfect curls somehow immune to the humidity.

"Yeah! Just... fixing my **hat**." Which was not a thing people said. Why did they say that?

Inside, the air was thick with artificial smoke and teenage pheromones. Jordan's group secured a spot near the front, everyone jumping and singing along to songs Jordan pretended to know. Their phone buzzed in their pocket— probably Mom asking if they'd remembered their jacket, because Moms could sense elevated anxiety levels through 5G networks.

Then the opening act finished, and the lights dropped. That moment of collective held breath before the headliner took the stage. Jordan felt it—that electric charge, everyone waiting for the same thing, connected by anticipation.

When the first beat dropped, Jordan forgot about pretending.

They forgot about their hair, and the beanie that definitely wasn't working anymore, and the fact that their phone was at 4%. They forgot about being the new addition to the friend group, about freshman-year cafeteria surveillance, about everything except the way the crowd moved as one organism, breathing and jumping and sweating together.

Maya grabbed Jordan's hand during their favorite song, both of them screaming the lyrics they'd practiced in bedrooms with doors locked. Her smile was genuine, not fake-photo-op genuine. The real kind.

Afterward, standing outside while rideshare prices surged, everyone compared favorite moments. Jordan's phone was officially dead, but honestly? Who cared.

"You really went IN during the bridge," Maya said, bumping Jordan's shoulder. "I didn't know you could scream like that."

"Neither did I." Jordan laughed, and it wasn't nervous laughter anymore. It was just laughter.

Maybe belonging wasn't about fitting into someone else's frequency. Maybe it was about finding your own and discovering it harmonized with people who actually listened.

Or maybe Jordan just needed to stop overthinking everything and enjoy the music.

Probably both.