Papaya Lightning

I was channeling my inner zombie—dead behind the eyes, shambling through Maya's back-to-school party like my brain had been eaten three days ago. Junior year had already turned me into this walking corpse, powered by iced coffee and anxiety.

"You look like you're dying," said this voice beside me.

I turned and there was Leo, leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned it. Leo Choi, who'd somehow transformed from theater nerd to TikTok famous over summer break. He held out a bowl of orange chunks.

"Try this."

I stared at it. "What is it?"

"Papaya. My mom's obsessed. It's supposed to be this superfood or whatever." He grinned, and something in my chest did this weird lightning-strike thing—sudden, electric, impossible to ignore. "Live a little, zombie girl."

The nickname hit weirdly close to home. I took a piece, feeling everyone's eyes on me like I was about to defuse a bomb. The first bite was weird—musky and sweet and nothing like I expected. But I didn't hate it.

"Well?" Leo asked.

"Not terrible," I admitted, and he laughed, and that sound was warmer than the papaya, richer than anything I'd felt in months.

We spent the rest of the party on the back porch, talking about nothing while his friends posted stories and my friends pretended not to notice. He told me about the pressure of going viral, I told him about feeling like a zombie in my own life. He said he felt it too sometimes—that performative exhaustion, like everyone wanted a piece of you.

When his ride came, he texted me: *Papaya next Friday? My house. Real food this time.*

I stood there in the driveway, the papaya taste still on my tongue, feeling something crack open inside me. Not dead anymore. Not a zombie.

Alive, finally, struck by lightning and still glowing.