Surviving the Party Apocalypse

I felt like a **zombie** walking into Jordan's house—dead inside, somehow still moving, and absolutely terrified someone would notice I had no idea what I was doing. My best friend Maya had spent two hours convincing me that this party would be "lowkey vibes" and that I needed to "stop overthinking everything."

The moment we stepped through the door, I spotted Tyler—the **bull** of our school's social hierarchy—holding court by the fireplace. He was loud, took up way too much space, and had that terrifying confidence that made everyone else either worship him or want to disappear into the walls. Last week, he'd made fun of my shoes in front of half the sophomore class. My fight-or-flight response was screaming.

"Dude, you good?" Maya whispered, nudging me. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I have a **goldfish** memory for social situations," I admitted. "I forget everything five seconds after it happens and then replay it at 3 AM for months."

She laughed. "That's called anxiety, not goldfish memory. But same."

We ended up in the kitchen where people were stacking cups into some kind of ridiculous **pyramid** on the counter. Someone shouted something about beer pong, but I was too busy trying to become one with the wall to pay attention. That's when Tyler walked in, and my brain immediately went into emergency shutdown mode.

But instead of saying something mean, he just grabbed a cup and asked, "You playing?"

Maya kicked my shin. "She's playing."

And somehow, improbably, I did. I played. I didn't die. I even made a shot. And later, walking home with Maya at 2 AM, I realized that maybe the zombies weren't the ones who showed up—it was the ones who stayed home, waiting for some guarantee of safety that would never come.

"Next time?" Maya asked.

"Maybe," I said. And for the first time, I actually meant it.