Survival Mode

Six hours of sleep, again. I dragged myself through first period like a straight-up zombie, brain fog thicker than the cafeteria's mystery meat. My phone buzzed during bio — Jake, reminding me about the padel tournament after school. The padel court. Where the social pyramid at Northwood High got reinforced in real time.

At lunch, I sat three tables down from the popular crew. They sat at the top of their pyramid, laughing about something I'd never understand. I swallowed my vitamin D supplement with a gulp of lukewarm water, trying to convince myself I wasn't inadequate. Just tired. Just... invisible.

But then the bell rang, and everything changed.

The padel courts behind school were packed. Jake was already there, sweating through his shirt, grinning like he didn't care that nobody knew his name. I grabbed a racket, feeling the familiar grip, the solid weight of it in my hand. Something shifted.

First point against the seniors — I dove for a ball that was basically gone, racket scraping the court, knee skidding against the surface. I got there. I sent it back, low and impossible. They missed.

"What?" One of them stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

Jake high-fived me so hard my palm stung. "You're low-key insane, Maya!"

We played three matches. I stopped thinking about the pyramid, the invisibility, the exhaustion. I played like my life depended on it. When I'm on the court, I'm not the quiet girl in AP Bio. I'm not the zombie running on five hours of sleep and half a vitamin regimen. I'm just... me.

Walking home, my golden retriever Luna met me at the driveway like she always does — tail thumping, whole body wiggling, unconditional love in fur form. I sat on the porch with her, nose buried in her neck, breathing in that perfect dog smell of earth and happiness.

"I played good today, Lunes," I whispered. She licked my cheek.

The zombie feeling lifted. The pyramid could wait. Tonight, I slept eight hours for the first time in weeks.