Neon at the Carnival

Maya's first real party was exactly the kind of disaster that would live in her group chat forever. The invitation had said 'casual hang,' which apparently meant half the football team, three different friend groups that actively hated each other, and someone's older brother who brought alcohol that made the basement smell like regret.

She'd spent two hours getting ready, spiraling between outfits until her roommate蕾蕾 finally said, 'You look good, stop overthinking it.' Maya was wearing that orange crop top she'd bought on impulse — bold, unlike her, exactly who she was trying to be.

Now she stood by the basement wall, phone in hand, watching everyone else exist like it was easy.

'You look like you're calculating your escape route.'

Maya jumped. A guy leaned against the wall beside her, messy brown hair, wearing a hoodie that had seen better days. His eyes flicked to her phone. 'Or livestreaming your suffering.'

'It's called documenting trauma,' she shot back. 'For when I write my memoir.'

He laughed — actually laughed, head tilted back. 'Fair. What's the title?'

'How I Survived Suburbia.'

'Solid.' He held out his hand. 'I'm Fox.'

Maya stared. 'Your name is Fox?'

'Yeah, my parents were those people.' He grinned. 'Don't worry, it gets worse. My middle name is Robin.'

'Fox Robin.'

'

I know. It's a whole thing.' He gestured toward the chaos of people playing beer pong and failing. 'So, Maya, are you gonna document this all night or actually let someone talk to you?'

Something loosened in her chest. 'I mean, you are talking to me.'

'True.' He studied her. 'You have really genuine energy. It's refreshing.'

'Is that code for I look awkward?'

'No.' His voice softened. 'It's code for you seem like someone who actually gives a shit about things.' He paused. 'My brother says that's dangerous.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning caring makes everything harder.' Fox shrugged. 'But I think he's just bitter. What do you think?'

Maya thought about her goldfish back home, the one she'd named after her grandmother who died last year. How she kept it alive through three dorm rooms and two near-death experiences because some things were worth caring about, even when they were hard.

'I think,' she said carefully, 'that not caring is just a different kind of hard.'

Fox's eyes widened slightly, like she'd surprised him. 'Yeah.' He nodded slowly. 'Yeah, exactly.'

Later, when they ended up on the front steps, eating cold pizza from a box someone left outside, Maya realized she'd forgotten to document anything. Her phone stayed in her pocket. The orange top she'd worried about all night was forgotten.

'So,' Fox said, 'same time next disaster?'

Maya laughed, and it felt easy, like she'd been doing it for years. 'Definitely.'