Fox at the End of the World

Maya's thumbs moved like they were possessed, scrolling through an endless feed of people living better lives than hers. The iphone glowed in the dim corner of Jake's basement, her only shield against the zombie apocalypse that is high school. Everyone here moved in packs—laughing, drinking, existing—while she sat on a beat-up couch that smelled like stale popcorn and bad decisions.

"You look like you're plotting someone's murder," a voice said.

Maya jumped. A guy in an oversized orange hoodie stood there, holding a red cup. He had messy dark hair and the kind of lazy smile that made something in her chest do a stupid little flip.

"Just mentally reciting the constitution," Maya said. "It calms me down."

He laughed—an actual laugh, not one of those fake ones people do to be polite. "I'm Oliver. Want to escape?"

Maya looked at him. At his sneakers. At the exit sign glowing above the beer pong table. "Yes."

They ended up on the back porch, the night air crisp against her skin. The suburban silence felt massive after the basement's noise.

"So," Oliver said, leaning against the railing. "What's your deal?"

"My deal?"

"Yeah. Like, are you artsy mysterious? Smart mysterious? Or just mysteriously mysterious?"

Maya smiled despite herself. "I'm Maya. I'm socially anxious, I cry at pet commercials, and once I tried to dye my hair orange and it came out looking like a construction cone."

Oliver's eyes lit up. "No way. Freshman year?"

"Sophomore, actually. I have excellent terrible judgment."

"Respect." He pulled out his phone. "I have a picture somewhere."

"Delete that."

"Never." He grinned. Then his expression shifted. "Hey, can I tell you something?"

Maya's stomach did that thing it does when you know something's coming, something real. "Yeah."

"I came to this party because my friend said you'd be here." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I've wanted to talk to you since you gave that presentation on cat cognition in bio, but you always wear headphones and look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

Maya's brain short-circuited. "You noticed me?"

"You're kind of hard to miss." He stepped closer. "Also, you drew a tiny fox in the corner of your poster board. It was subtle. I appreciated that."

The night was suddenly very loud with crickets and her own heartbeat. "I drew that because I was nervous."

"It worked." Oliver's voice dropped. "So, Maya who cries at pet commercials and once had construction cone hair—can I get your number? Not forinstagram. For actual talking."

Her phone buzzed in her hand—a notification, a text, something that mattered so much less than this moment. She turned it face down.

"Only if you promise to never show anyone that photo."

"Deal."

The zombie apocalypse could wait. Tonight, Maya wasn't hiding anymore.