Static Signal

The ethernet cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, mocking me. "It's just a house party, Maya. You'll be fine," I whispered to my reflection, adjusting my glasses for the third time. My phone buzzed — my third attempt to text myself into confidence.

At the party, people clustered in the living room. I stood alone near the snack table, nursing a lukewarm soda, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl — watched, exposed, with nowhere to hide. The bass thrummed through my chest.

"Hey."

I jumped. Chris stood there, holding a bag of chips. He was in my English class, always sat in the back, never spoke.

"H-hi."

"These chips are stale as hell." He gestured toward the dip. "That spinach artichoke stuff looks radioactive."

I almost laughed. "It's my uncle's recipe."

"No way. You're Maya Chen? Mr. Chen's niece?"

"The one and only." Something in my chest loosened.

He leaned against the wall. "Your uncle's obsessed with that sphinx replica in his classroom. Keeps saying it's gonna come to life if we solve enough riddles."

"Oh my god, YES." I lit up. "He bought it at a garage sale and talks about it like it's a real artifact. It's his whole personality."

Chris grinned. "Last week he made us write essays from the sphinx's perspective. Like, what would a limestone statue think about high school drama?"

"Uncle Dave is unhinged." I shook my head. "But also, kind of brilliant?"

"Yeah." He studied me. "You're funny."

The air between us shifted. Not electric exactly — more like a cable finally connecting, signal finding its way through.

"I'm not, though. I'm just... here."

"That's the thing." His voice dropped. "Nobody's really 'here.' We're all just pretending." He gestured to the clusters of people. "That group? They've been standing in the same circle for forty minutes, not saying anything real."

"So what's the point?"

"Find the real stuff." He stepped closer. "Like this. This conversation. This is real."

My heart did something stupid and gymnastic.

"Maya!" My uncle's voice boomed. "There you are! Come help me with the sphinx!"

Chris ducked his head. "Good luck with that."

"Wait—" I started, but he was already moving away.

Then he turned back. "Hey, maybe I'll text you? Help me write that sphinx essay?"

"I'd like that."

As I walked toward my uncle, I didn't feel like a goldfish anymore. I felt like a signal, finally finding its frequency. Static, but clear.