Poolside at Midnight

It's 2 AM and I'm basically zombie-walking back to the pool.

I told my parents I was sleeping at Maya's, Maya told her mom she was sleeping at mine, and here we are, sneaking into the community pool because somehow at sixteen, breaking and entering feels like a rite of passage. My brain is mush from finals week, my social battery died three parties ago, and honestly? I've been feeling like a zombie all month. Just going through the motions, faking the laughs, nodding at the right times during lunch debates about who likes who.

But swimming in the dark? That hits different.

I slip into the water, the cool shock waking up everything that's been numb. Maya's already there, doing laps in silence.

Then I see it.

A fox.

It's standing at the edge of the pool, watching us. I freeze. The fox tilts its head, amber eyes reflecting the distant streetlights. It doesn't run. It just watches, curious and calm and completely unbothered by two idiot teenagers trespassing at 2 AM.

"This is insane," Maya whispers, surfacing beside me.

"It's perfect," I say, and I realize it's the first thing I've meant all month.

The fox stays for twenty minutes. Just sitting there while we float in the dark, talking about everything and nothing. About how we're tired of performing. About how sometimes I feel like I'm underwater even on dry land. About how maybe everyone's secretly a little exhausted.

When it finally leaves, I feel more awake than I have in weeks.

Not a zombie. Not drowning. Just a girl at midnight, learning how to breathe.