Running Past the Zombie Zone

I'd been in zombie mode for three days straight—ever since Jordan ghosted me after our lab partner disaster. Sleep deprivation from marathon gaming sessions didn't help. My brain felt like it was running on 2% battery and pure spite.

"You look like actual death," Maya said, sliding into the cafeteria seat beside me. "And not in the cute goth way. More like... extra in a walking dead scene way."

"Gee, thanks." I poked at my mystery meat lunch. "At least my streak of being socially invisible remains intact."

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Maya whispered, nodding toward the entrance.

Jordan. The bull who'd trampled my social capital. He was laughing with his new lab partner, some transfer student who probably actually understood physics. My stomach did this awful twisty thing, like I'd swallowed a live fish.

"You gotta stop letting him live rent-free in your head," Maya said, stealing a tater tot from my tray. "Take the bull by the horns, or whatever. Or at least stop looking like he murdered your pet hamster."

"He basically murdered my GPA, same thing."

That afternoon found me running until my lungs burned, the track blurring beneath my sneakers. Coach said I'd lost my edge. She wasn't wrong. Everything felt heavy lately, like I was wading through invisible sludge.

A flash of orange caught my eye near the woods—a fox, tail streaming behind it like flame. It stopped, watching me with eyes that seemed almost mocking. Then it bolted, impossibly fast, like it knew something I didn't.

I followed.

I know, I know. Following possibly rabid wildlife into the woods isn't exactly peak genius behavior. But something about that fox felt important, like it was leading me toward an answer I couldn't quite articulate.

It led me to the old outdoor classroom behind the gym, where Jordan sat alone, headphones on, failing spectacularly at physics homework.

The fox vanished. Jordan looked up, spotted me, and I saw it—that same twisty-stomach insecurity mirrored in his expression.

"I messed up," he said, setting his pencil down. "The lab thing. I shouldn't have bailed."

"Yeah, you kinda sucked about that."

"I know." He actually laughed. "I'm trying to fix it, but I'm failing at that too. Obviously."

So we sat there, working through projectile motion together, and I realized something: maybe moving forward isn't about forgetting the zombie-zone moments, but about letting your friends help you run through them.