Electric Orange

The orange hoodie was supposed to be my armor. Freshman year, first real party, and I was already spiraling. Standing behind Maya, my hands shoved deep in the pockets, feeling like a total zombie after three hours of overthinking every possible social outcome.

"You good, Leo?" Maya asked, her eyebrows furrowed like she could actually see the disaster movie playing in my head.

"Yeah. Just. You know." I gestured vaguely at everything and nothing, because that's what you do when words feel too heavy.

Then the dog trotted out of nowhere—some golden retriever mix, tongue out, living its best life like social anxiety wasn't even a thing. It bounded straight toward the fire pit where everyone was gathering, tail wagging like crazy. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted, "Yo whose dog is this?" and suddenly the whole vibe shifted. The carefully constructed social hierarchy I'd been mentally mapping dissolved into something real.

The dog made eye contact with me. Just straight up locked eyes, then trotted over and nudged my hand. I knelt down, and this random animal was just ... happy to see me. No performance, no overthinking, none of the mental gymnastics I'd been doing all night.

Then the palm tree behind me swayed hard, and the sky cracked open. Lightning split the darkness—this electric flash that turned everything white for a split second. Someone screamed-playfully, I think-and suddenly everyone was scrambling toward the porch as rain started coming down sideways.

I ended up squeezed onto a plastic chair next to this girl I'd been lowkey noticing all semester. Her hair was wet from the run, her mascara slightly smudged, and she was laughing at something her friend said—this genuine, unselfish laugh that made something in my chest loosen.

"I like your hoodie," she said, turning toward me like I was actually someone worth talking to. "Orange is brave. I could never pull it off."

The dog shook itself off next to us, spraying water everywhere, and she laughed again, and I realized something important: nobody was thinking about me half as much as I'd been thinking about me. The real zombies weren't the ones who stayed home scrolling through their phones until their eyes burned—it was us, showing up anyway, even when it felt impossible.

"Thanks," I said, and for the first time all night, I didn't immediately second-guess whether it was the right thing to say.

The rain kept coming down, lightning flashing every few seconds, and somehow this was exactly where I was supposed to be.