Screenshot Summer

Maya's fingers hovered over her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the darkness of her room. Another party invite from the group chat she'd been ghosting all summer. Her thumbs twitched—type yes, type no—but instead she just swiped left, watching the notification dissolve into nothing.

"You coming tonight?" echoed through her mind. Jordan's words from freshman year gym class still stung: "You're like, barely there, you know?"

She stared at the mirror instead. The orange hair dye she'd impulse-bought at CVS sat on her counter, screaming at her to be brave. Three years of blending into lockers and classroom corners, and suddenly she wanted to be seen. Wanted to be the kind of girl who dyed her hair electric orange without asking for permission.

The bathroom tile was cold against her bare feet as she applied the dye, her hands shaking. Thirty minutes later, she stared at her reflection—vibrant, impossible, and terrifying.

Her phone buzzed. Sarah's Instagram story: everyone at Tyler's house, fairy lights strung across the backyard, someone playing acoustic guitar badly. Maya's palm pressed against the screen as if she could reach through and be there.

"Three strokes of luck," Maya muttered, remembering the palm reader at the spring fair who'd told her she'd "find her voice before summer's end." She'd laughed it off then.

Now she grabbed her keys, orange hair wild around her shoulders, and walked out the door.

The backyard was exactly like Sarah's stories—fairy lights, acoustic guitar, everyone talking over everyone. Maya froze on the patio stairs until someone yelled, "Whoa, check out the hair!"

It was Jordan. "Maya? Is that you? That's... actually kind of sick."

"Thanks," Maya said, and her voice didn't shake. She pulled out her phone, opened the camera, and snapped a selfie with Jordan and the fairy lights. Posted it. No filter.

Her phone exploded with notifications within seconds—heart reactions from people who'd never commented on her posts before. But it wasn't the likes that made her smile. It was how her palm didn't feel sweaty anymore. How she wasn't standing in the corner.

The palm reader was wrong. She didn't find her voice. She'd had it all along—she'd just needed something worth shouting about.

Maya grinned, orange hair catching the fairy lights, and finally typed into the group chat: "I'm here. Where's the food?"