Static Electricity

The thing about having a **friend** like Mateo is that he makes everything look effortless—especially when it's absolutely not.

"Dude, just hit the ball," he yelled across the **padel** court, grinning like he hadn't just spent twenty minutes explaining the rules to my very unathletic self.

I swung the racquet. Missed completely. The ball bounced off the fence behind me.

"Your swing has all the grace of a dying fish," Mateo called, but he was laughing.

Then I heard it—thunder. Not the distant rumble that makes you glance at the sky and keep playing. This was the low, ominous kind that vibrates in your chest. A jagged streak of **lightning** split the sky like crack in a mirror, followed immediately by thunder so loud I felt it in my teeth.

"Yeah, we're gonna die," Mateo said, grabbing our bags.

We ran for it, the first heavy drops of rain already turning the court into a slip-n-slide from hell. By the time we reached his porch, we were soaked through, our sneakers squelching with every step.

His **dog**, Buster—a chaotic golden retriever mix with zero regard for personal space—greeted us by launching himself full-force at my chest.

"Buster, down—" Mateo started.

Too late. I went down hard on the wet tile, Buster enthusiastically **swimming** through the puddles now forming on the porch, like this was exactly the exciting development he'd been waiting for.

I lay there, soaked, muddy, with a dog standing on my stomach, and started laughing. Couldn't stop. Mateo joined in, sliding down to sit beside me against the wall as the rain poured down in sheets outside.

"Worst game ever," I said, wiping water from my eyes.

"Nah," Mateo said, watching the storm light up the sky. "Best game ever."

And the weird part was, he wasn't wrong. Some days are just like that—completely disastrous, somehow perfect anyway.