Friday Night Feels

The abandoned orange slice stuck to Maya's locker door like a bad decision—which, honestly, it was. Jake had tried to slide it into her hand between third and fourth period, missing entirely and creating what everyone was now calling The Citrus Incident. The humiliation burned fresh every time she walked past.

"You good, bestie?" Chloe asked, falling into step beside her. "You've been moving like a zombie all day. Lit or nah?"

"Hard pass," Maya muttered, adjusting her backpack straps. "Jake literally orange-bombed me. In front of everyone. My social standing is currently six feet under."

Chloe snorted. "Drama queen. He was trying to shoot his shot. Respect the hustle."

"The hustle? Chloe, he missed my HAND."

"Bro missed his shot like crazy," Chloe conceded. "But he's cute though."

"Not the point."

The real issue wasn't even Jake—it was that everyone expected her to have it together. Perfect grades, perfect vibe, perfect everything. But inside? Total impostor syndrome. Some days she felt like she was just going through the motions, zombie-fying her way through high school while everyone else seemed to have received some secret manual on How To Teen that she'd definitely missed.

Her phone buzzed. MOM: Don't forget to walk Buster before dinner.

Buster. The family's ancient golden retriever, who looked at Maya like she personally invented sunlight and belly rubs. The one living thing that didn't expect her to be anything other than exactly who she was.

Maybe that was the answer.

"Wait," Maya said, stopping in the hallway. "What if I, like, actually talked to him?"

"Jake?" Chloe's eyes widened. "We're escalating?"

"Yeah. No more overthinking. Just—real talk." Maya took a breath. "He tried. It was awkward. Whatever. I'm done feeling zombie over it."

"Periodt," Chloe nodded approvingly. "Main character energy."

After school, Maya found Jake by his locker. The orange slice was gone—someone had finally scraped it off—but the memory lingered. Jake looked up, saw her, and immediately pretended to be very interested in a nonexistent text message.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey." His voice cracked. Smooth. "About the orange thing—"

"Tragic," she finished. "But also kinda hilarious?"

A grin broke through his panic. "My aim is actually cursed."

"Noted. Want to walk my dog with me? Buster could use the social interaction."

Jake blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Unless you're gonna throw fruit at him too."

"I'll keep my orange slices to myself. Promise."

Walking home with Jake and Buster, who was indeed living his best life, Maya realized something: being a teenager was basically one long awkward orange moment after another. The trick wasn't avoiding the mess—it was learning to laugh at it, move through it, maybe even let someone help you clean it up.

And maybe, just maybe, that was better than perfect.