Orange Peel Dreams

Maya's lab partner since September, dumped her via Snapchat three hours before homecoming. Now she sat on her bedroom floor at 11 PM, surrounded by half-empty vitamin bottles her mom swore would fix everything—D for confidence, B complex for stress, something unpronounceable for focus. As if.

Outside, Brody, their ancient golden retriever, scratched at the back door. His dog dreams had been more peaceful than hers lately. At least his biggest problem was deciding between napping spots.

Her phone buzzed. Group chat: the squad-minus-one already planning pre-game. No Maya. No surprise there. She'd been slowly phased out since she refused to ditch IB Physics for study hall with them. Apparently having academic goals made her "try-hard."

She peeled an orange, the spray hitting her wrist. Citigy sharp, cutting through the too-perfect Instagram aesthetic everyone performed. Fresh squeezed reality.

Brody finally wedged the door open with his nose, flopping dramatically beside her like she'd been gone for years instead of fifteen minutes. His orange-fuzz eyebrows knit together in concern. Dogs somehow knew.

"You're not the one who needs fixing," she told him, scratching behind his ears. He sighed, that contented-dog sound that made everything feel slightly less catastrophic.

At midnight, she made a choice. Posted a photo: herself, messy hair, no filter, holding the half-peeled orange like a trophy. Caption: "Actually crushing Physics instead of my social life. Sorry not sorry."

Her phone went wild. But one message stood out: from that quiet kid in her AP Calc class. "Want to study together? I mean, if you're not too busy being awesome."

She grinned. Brody thumped his tail against the floor like, See? Working already.

The vitamin bottles stayed where they were. Turns out confidence didn't come in pill form. It came in orange peels, dog wisdom, and choosing people who didn't make her smaller just to fit in.