Sphinx at the House Party

Maya's thumbs moved on autopilot, zombie-like from three hours of doomscrolling. Her iPhone battery was dying, but she kept refreshing anyway, watching her crush's story repeat for the fourth time.

"You coming?" Jake called from the doorway. "Everyone's doing pyramids in the basement."

She hesitated. Social hierarchies at parties were like pyramids—few at the top, crushed beneath. Maya usually hovered near the bottom, surviving on snacks and bathroom breaks.

"Maybe later," she lied.

When Jake left, she slipped out the back door and found herself staring at the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen: a lawn sphinx wearing sunglasses, someone's idea of expensive decoration. Maya sat beside it, pulling out her phone one last time before it died completely.

The sphinx seemed to judge her.

"What?" she whispered. "At least I'm not spending thousands on lawn ornaments."

The backyard pond glowed with underwater lights. Goldfish—dozens of them—circled in endless loops, their orange scales flashing like tiny disco balls. One fish kept swimming to the surface, mouth opening and closing, as if trying to speak.

"I feel you," Maya said. "My phone's dead too."

For the first time all night, she breathed. No filters. No comparing herself to girls who'd spent two hours on contour. No pretending to understand jokes that weren't funny.

Her phone screen went black.

"Finally," she said aloud.

Inside, she could hear laughter, the bass of something upbeat, people performing for each other. Out here with a sphinx and goldfish, Maya felt something unexpected: okay. Not amazing, not transformed—just okay with being on the edges sometimes.

She stood up, brushed grass from her jeans, and headed inside.

"Pyramids still happening?" she asked Jake.

He shrugged. "Nah. We're doing karaoke now. You in?"

Maya smiled. "Maybe later."