Orange Hoodie Resurrection

I showed up to Jordan's party wearing my neon orange hoodie—obviously not the move. Everyone else was in those aesthetic muted tones that scream 'I don't try but I definitely try.' I looked like a walking traffic cone, which honestly wasn't far from how I felt.

The house was packed with people moving through the motions—phone scrolling, nodding along to music they weren't hearing, laughing at jokes they didn't find funny. Total zombie energy. Maya was by the punch bowl, locked into that conversation where everyone's talking but nobody's saying anything. I caught her eye for like half a second before she turned away.

Fine. Whatever.

I slipped out back and sat on the porch steps, pulling my knees up. My golden retriever Buster was waiting there exactly where I'd left him—my emotional support animal for social disasters. He nudged my hand with that wet nose, and I buried my fingers in his fur.

You good, bud? he seemed to ask with those soulful eyes.

Not really, I told him silently. But also kind of?

The orange hoodie suddenly felt less embarrassing and more like armor. Like, this is me. I'm the person who wears obnoxiously bright colors and brings their dog to parties and would rather sit on the porch than pretend to be someone else inside.

Buster licked my chin, and I laughed for real this time.

Maya opened the back door. She had two sodas.

Hey, she said. Everything okay?

Yeah, I said. Just... zombie noise in there. You know?

She sat beside me, close enough that our arms touched. I like your hoodie, she said. It's loud.

Buster decided that was his cue to rest his head in her lap.

Traitor, I whispered, but Maya was smiling, and suddenly the orange didn't feel like a mistake anymore. It felt like the beginning of something real.