Orange Soda at the Edge of Everything

The pool party was exactly the kind of social nightmare that turned me into a total zombie. I'd spent all night overthinking my outfit, so now I was running on three hours of sleep and existential dread, hovering near the snack table like it was my only safe harbor.

That's when I saw him. Jordan. The guy I'd been lowkey spy-ing on Instagram since September, watching his stories like it was my actual job. He was standing by the deep end, orange soda in hand, looking annoyingly effortless in his swim trunks while everyone else was performing elaborate social dances I hadn't memorized.

My dog Buster would've judged me so hard. He always knew when I was being pathetic, with those judgy eyes that said really, human? really?

"Hey," said Jordan, suddenly right there. "You want this? I don't really drink soda."

He held out the orange Fanta. The can was sweating in the heat, leaving water droplets on his palm like he'd been holding it underwater. My brain short-circuited. This was NOT in the script.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." I took it, our fingers brushing for exactly 0.3 seconds that I would overanalyze for the next three business days. "I'm Maya, by the way."

"Jordan." He grinned. "You look like you're plotting someone's murder over by the chips."

"Just plotting my exit strategy," I admitted, surprising myself. "These things are, like, emotionally exhausting."

"Same," he said, and something in his face shifted. "I only came because my mom made me. Said I need to 'put myself out there' or whatever."

We ended up sitting on the pool edge, legs in the water, talking about everything and nothing. About how high school felt like a performance we hadn't rehearsed for. About how sometimes you just wanted to lie on your bedroom floor with your dog and pretend the world didn't exist.

The orange soda turned my tongue weird colors and Jordan laughed so hard he almost fell in. The sun set behind the trees, painting everything in this impossible orange-gold light, and for the first time all night, I didn't feel like I was spying on my own life from the outside.

Maybe, I thought, watching Jordan animatedly explain why zombies would actually make terrible swimmers, maybe I didn't need to plot an exit strategy after all.