Sweaty Palms and Zombie Mode

My palms were basically swimming pools.

Standing at the edge of Jordan's backyard bash, I watched Marcus—that perfect, Varsity-jacket-wearing, somehow-always-smelling-good Marcus—high-five half the soccer team. His hand movements were effortless. Mine were stuck at my sides, clenched so hard my fingernails left crescent moons in my skin. Classic anxiety move, honestly.

"You good?" Maya appeared beside me, solo cup in hand.

"Yeah. Just. You know." I gestured vaguely at everything.

She snorted. "You look like you're gonna pass out or throw up. Hard to tell which."

"Both? Both feels accurate."

The party had started three hours ago. I'd been hiding in the bathroom for forty-five minutes of it, scrolling through TikTok until my eyes basically glazed over. Full zombie mode. My phone battery was down to 12%, and honestly? Same. My emotional battery was lower.

Then I heard it.

Barking. Not the cute yip-yip of someone's Instagram-famous Chihuahua. Real barking. Deep, rhythmic, I-am-not-messing-around barking.

A golden retriever burst through the back gate like he owned the place. Because he kind of did—Buster was Jordan's family's dog, usually crated during parties because last time, he ate an entire vegetable platter, including the plastic tray.

"BUSTER!" Jordan screamed, chasing after him.

Buster made a beeline for the snack table. Chaos ensued. Chips flying. Dip disaster. Someone's phone bouncing off the patio stones.

And then—this gorgeous, perfect disaster—Buster locked eyes with me. He trotted over, tail wagging like a metronome on caffeine, and planted his butt right in front of me. Those soulful brown eyes staring up like I was the first human he'd seen in three years.

I dropped to my knees.

"Hey buddy," I whispered, and his whole body wiggled.

My hands found his fur—soft, warm, real. Not sweaty palms anymore. Just dog.

We sat there while the party swirled around us. Marcus could high-five whoever he wanted. Maya could socialize like a normal human being. I had Buster. And honestly? Buster was better than small talk about AP Chem or college applications or whatever the hell everyone was stressing about.

"Your dog loves me more than he loves you," I told Jordan, scratching behind Buster's ears.

"Yeah, yeah." Jordan flopped down beside us. "He's got good taste."

Buster leaned his whole weight against my leg, sighed like he'd been running a marathon instead of just raiding the snack table, and closed his eyes.

Maybe parties weren't so terrible after all.

At least this one wasn't.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—17%. Battery and social anxiety both slightly improved.

Progress, I guess.