Sweaty Palms & Screens

Maya's palms were sweating. Again. She wiped them on her jeans for the third time, clutching her iPhone like it was a lifeline. The group chat was blowing up.

"U coming???" flashed across the screen.

"Running late," she typed back, even though she wasn't running anywhere. She was parked outside Tyler's house, heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

They'd been best friends since seventh grade, when he'd moved here from California with his laid-back vibe and stories about palm trees and beaches that seemed exotic to her suburban life. But somewhere between freshman year and now, something had shifted. Or maybe it was just Maya who'd changed.

She caught her reflection in the phone's black screen – hair she'd straightened twice, makeup she never wore. Why did this feel so huge? They hung out all the time.

Her thumb hovered over his contact. Should she text him first? No, that was weird. They were literally friends.

A notification pinged. Party in 10! Don't be lame lol

Maya groaned and dropped her head against the steering wheel. This was stupid. She was being stupid. Tyler was just Tyler – the guy who made terrible jokes, who shared his headphones with her during study hall, who didn't care that she was awkward sometimes.

So why couldn't she just breathe around him lately?

"You got this," she whispered to herself, like that would help.

Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Tyler: "hey u okay? saving u a spot btw"

Something about that message – that he noticed, that he waited – made her chest feel weirdly tight. Maya grabbed her stuff and finally started walking toward his front door, still wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans, still terrified and excited and not knowing what any of it meant.

But when Tyler opened the door and grinned like she was exactly who he wanted to see, Maya thought maybe that was enough for now.