Sweaty Palms and Stolen Hats

The humidity in the gym was absolutely lethal. I stood by the punch bowl, my **palm**s so sweaty I could practically water plants with them. Welcome to sophomore year fall formal, aka my personal circle of hell.

"You good, bro?" Marcus asked, nudging my shoulder. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm chill," I lied, adjusting my dad's vintage fedora—yes, I went there—for the seventeenth time. The **hat** was my security blanket, my shield against the terrifying reality that I, Tyler Chen, had zero clue how to be a normal human being at social functions.

Across the room, Sarah Martinez was laughing at something Jake said. Sarah, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since seventh grade, even though she had no idea I existed beyond that one time I accidentally knocked over her lunch tray.

I couldn't **bear** it another second. The weight of my own awkwardness was physically painful.

"I need air," I mumbled, ditching Marcus and making a break for the exit.

The cool October air hit my face like a blessing. I leaned against the brick wall outside, trying to convince myself that high school wasn't actually the end all be all of existence.

"Nice hat." Sarah's voice made me jump so hard I nearly dropped my phone.

She stood there, looking unfairly cute in her dress, holding two cups of punch. "You practically ran out of there. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just needed a minute. Too many people."

"Same," she said, leaning against the wall beside me. "Jake's been talking about his truck for twenty minutes straight. I needed to escape."

We stood there in comfortable silence for a moment. The absurdity of the situation hit me—me, alone outside with my crush, while the actual party raged without us.

"You know," she said, gesturing to my head, "I actually like the hat. It's got... vibes."

"Vibes?" I couldn't help but smile. "That's one way to put it."

"It's confident," she said simply. "Most guys are too scared to wear something different."

Well, damn.

Maybe high school wasn't completely terrible. Maybe, just maybe, the most authentic version of yourself was the one worth showing—sweaty palms and questionable fashion choices included.

"Want to go back inside together?" I asked.

She grinned. "Absolutely."