Palm Reader's Prophecy

Maya felt like a zombie. Three days after the group chat blowout, she was still doomscrolling at 2 AM, eyes burning, watching clips of people living lives that seemed impossibly vibrant. Her ex-best friend Sarah had posted another Story — their mutual friends at some beach party Maya wasn't invited to. Maya's thumb hovered over Sarah's profile, that cable of connection still there, useless now.

"You look like death," said Leo, dropping onto the bench beside her at lunch. He slid a container across the table. "Try this. My mom's obsessed with her health kick phase."

Inside sat chunks of bright orange papaya, glistening like edible sunset. Maya poked at it suspiciously.

"What is this vibe?" she asked. "Fruit-based intervention?"

"Just eat it, zombie girl. It's got enzymes. Or whatever."

They sat in comfortable silence, Leo tapping away on his phone while Maya actually tasted the fruit. Sweet, weirdly peppery, not terrible. Across the cafeteria, she caught Sarah's eye. Then Sarah quickly looked away, laughing at something someone else said.

Maya's chest hurt. Physical, like someone had reached inside her ribcage and squeezed.

"Okay, serious question," Leo said, setting down his phone. "You want me to delete her number for you? I'll do it. I'm that friend now."

He held out his hand, palm up. Maya stared at the lines tracing across his skin. In middle school, they'd all been obsessed with those palm reading TikToks, convinced that the length of your life line determined when you'd find true love or whatever. Sarah had read Maya's palm seventh period and said, "You're going to marry someone rich and live in a treehouse."

Stupid prediction. Stupid to remember it.

"No," Maya said finally. "I need to do it myself. Just... not yet."

"Fair." Leo popped a papaya chunk in his mouth. "But for real, you sleeping? You look like actual walking dead out here."

"I'm fine," Maya lied. The zombie feeling was familiar now. School had felt like this for months — performative laughter in hallways, conversations that felt scripted, everyone moving through the same motions. Maybe that's why she and Sarah had drifted apart. They'd both been pretending.

Maya pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Sarah's contact again. That cable connecting them to three years of inside jokes, shared secrets, the way they'd made each other feel less alone in this weird performative world.

She deleted it.

The screen flashed: Contact deleted.

Maya's stomach dropped. Then rose. Like she'd stepped off a ledge and found she could fly.

"You okay?" Leo asked.

Maya looked at him — at her friend who brought her weird health food and offered to delete contacts and sat with her when she felt like a zombie. The cafeteria noise seemed to get louder, more real.

"Yeah," she said, and realized it was true. "Actually, I think I am."