Screen Light Shenanigans

Maya's palms sweated against her **iphone** as she stood against the wall, watching the party unfold like some choreographed disaster. The social **pyramid** was painfully obvious: Jake and his crew at the top, everyone else scrambling for the lower tiers.

"You look like a **zombie**," whispered Ren, sliding beside her. "Dead inside, scrolling to feel alive."

Maya shoved her phone in her pocket. "Better than being out there failing."

Ren dragged her toward the kitchen. "Ms. Lee brought weird fruit from her garden. We're doing a challenge."

The kitchen counter held **papaya** slices that looked like alien organs. Jake was there, surrounded by his pyramid-tier friends, looking unexpectedly normal as he tried the fruit.

"It's actually good," he said, catching Maya's eye. "Try it."

Her palms went full sprinkler-sweat. She stepped forward, grabbed a slice, and everyone watched like it was a performance. The taste hit her—sweet, musky, nothing like the sterile snacks she usually lived on.

"Not terrible," she managed, and Jake actually smiled.

"See? Zombie lives," someone joked, but it wasn't mean. It was like... invitation.

Maya's phone buzzed in her pocket. Notifications, FOMO, the digital world pulling her back. But she stayed, papaya on her tongue, real laughter in her ears, thinking maybe the real pyramid wasn't social status—it was the layers of herself she kept building between actual human connection and the safety of her screen.