Papaya Apocalypse at the Plate

Marcus stood on the pitcher's mound, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The baseball felt slick in his sweating palm. Below him, Coach Miller bellowed something about focus and determination, but honestly? Marcus's brain had checked out three innings ago.

He was running on two hours of sleep and what felt like a permanent zombie state from finals week. His phone had buzzed at 2 AM with that text from Maya—does she like me or not?!—and now his entire existence felt like one giant, overthinking emoji.

"You're gonna do great, sweetie," his mom had called that morning, because apparently she still believed in him even though he'd already struck out twice, looking like a complete toolsack in front of everyone, including Ella, who sat in the bleachers looking like she belonged in a music video instead of at a high school game.

The batter stepped up. Jason. The bull of the sophomore class, all shoulders and confidence, the kind of guy who probably ate papaya for breakfast without making a weird face. Marcus had once watched Jason effortlessly peel and slice one in the cafeteria while Marcus struggled with his Lunchable like a kindergartner.

Jason smirked. Marcus's stomach dropped.

"Just throw it, zombie-boy!" someone yelled from the dugout. Everyone laughed. Because of course they had noticed the dark circles. Of course they had.

But then something clicked. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was just finally not caring anymore. Marcus wound up and threw—

And it was perfect. A curveball that dropped like it had personal business elsewhere. Strike three.

The team rushed him. Ella actually smiled from the bleachers. And for once, Marcus wasn't running away from his own awkwardness. He was standing right in it, owning it, zombie state and all.

Later, Maya texted back: "u looked cute out there 💀"

He was definitely framing that screenshot.