Poolside Apocalypse Protocol

Maya dragged herself to the **pool** deck feeling like actual **zombie** royalty—three hours of sleep and four straight days of summer hanging out would do that to you. The humidity hit her like a wall of 90s hair gel.

"You look deceased," said Leo, spinning a **padel** racquet like he was practicing for Wimbledon. "Even your **cat** has more life energy, and she sleeps twenty hours a day."

"Shut up, Leo." Maya dropped her towel on a lounge chair. "At least I'm not pretending to be athletic when we both know you came here because Emma's working the snack bar again."

Leo's ears turned red. "I came for the sport. Padel requires finesse."

"Finesse," Maya deadpanned. "Right."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—dead, obviously. She'd forgotten her charging **cable** at home. Again. It was becoming a theme. No phone meant no awkwardly checking notifications to avoid conversation. Meant actually having to exist in the moment like some ancient creature from 2005.

The pool gate creaked. Emma walked in carrying a tray of nachos, hair frizzing in the heat. Leo suddenly became fascinated with his shoelaces.

"You're literally **zombie**-level oblivious," Maya muttered to him. "Go talk to her before someone else does."

"I can't. What if she thinks I'm weird?"

"You ARE weird." Maya stood up, joints popping. "That's the point. Own it."

The weight of it hit her suddenly—the way they were all dancing around each other, terrified of being seen but desperate not to disappear. Summer was supposed to be about freedom, but somehow it felt like another performance.

Leo finally moved toward Emma. Maya watched them talking, watched Emma laugh. Her phone sat dead in her pocket like a brick, and she realized: maybe that was okay. Some moments weren't meant to be captured or broadcast or turned into content.

She slipped into the pool, water shocking her skin, and for the first time all week, she actually felt awake.