Lightning Caught in Glass

The problem with Mia's parties wasn't the people—it was that everyone was performing. Even the pyramids of red Solo cups stacked by the keg felt staged, like prop pieces from a high school movie set where I'd miscast myself as extra.

"Your lifeline's literally split in two," Kayla said, tracing imaginary creases across my palm with one acrylic nail while texting someone with her other hand. "That means you're gonna have, like, two completely different lives. Which is lowkey iconic honestly."

I swallowed. She'd already diagnosed three people tonight as "high-key destined for influencer fame" and one poor freshman whose "head line apparently disappears in 2027." Now it was my turn to receive her $5 palm reading special, proceeds benefiting her vape pen fund.

"Cool," I managed, because that's what you say when your crush's best friend's reading your future in a bedroom that smells like tropical punch and peer pressure.

Outside, actual lightning split the sky. The power flickered.

"Omg, the universe is literally validating this reading," Kayla said. "Your aura's so responsive right now."

I slid my hand back. The room was suddenly too warm.

"Need air," I mumbled, ducking past someone explaining why his dad's new cryptocurrency thing was definitely not a pyramid scheme, like, the math literally worked.

The backyard was quieter. Smelled like rain and someone's abandoned mango vape. By the pool, a single goldfish drifted in a bowl someone'd left on the patio table—probably a party favor from some sophomore's quinceañabra. The orange fish kept swimming the same tight circle, forgetting where it'd been every three seconds.

Same, honestly.

"Hey."

I jumped. Alex stood by the sliding door, hoodie up, holding two plastic cups. He pointed at the fish.

"That's the third time he's passed that fake plant. He has no idea."

"No idea," I agreed.

"I saw you escape the palm readings," he said. "Your head line was apparently giving everyone drama."

"It's apparently nonexistent after 2027."

"Tragic."

He handed me a cup. Sprite. He remembered.

"My mom says those things are bs anyway," Alex said, leaning against the railing. "She says if you want to know your future, look at what you're doing right now. That's it. That's the whole algorithm."

The lightning cracked again—closer. The goldfish flared orange in the flash, electric and alive.

I looked at my palm in the sudden brightness. The lines were just lines. But Alex was here. And I was here. And suddenly the circle didn't feel so tight anymore.

"Your mom's smart," I said.

He shrugged. "She also says not to swim during electrical storms. We should probably go back inside."

"Yeah."

But neither of moved. Not yet.