Sweaty Palms & Secret Screens

Maya's palms were literally sweating through her jeggings as she hovered over Bella's iPhone on the cafeteria table. This was it. The moment of truth.

"You gonna.spy or what?" Bella whispered, shoving her phone closer. "He's posting right now."

Maya's crush since seventh grade, Ethan, had just uploaded an Instagram story. The casual spy mission had become their daily lunch ritual — checking his posts, overanalyzing every caption, wondering if his vague aesthetic sunsets were secretly about someone.

She tapped through. Five photos of his vintage record collection. The last one: a girl's hand reaching for a vinyl. Maya's stomach did that awful flip-flop thing.

"Wait, is that—"

"Chill," Bella said, though her own palm was suddenly super interested in the table's edge. "Could be his cousin. Or literally anyone."

Maya stared at the screen, remembering the party last weekend where she'd finally talked to Ethan. He'd mentioned something about playing guitar. She'd mentioned something incredibly uncool about her mom's Toyota. Her actual palm had been so sweaty she'd wiped it on her dress like three times.

Now this. Some girl touching his records. Maybe.

"You know what?" Maya slid the phone back. "I'm done being a creep." She stood up, grabbing her tray. "I'm just gonna talk to him. Like, in person."

Bella's jaw dropped. "For real? Right now?"

"Why not?" Maya said, though her voice went up an octave. "I'd rather know than spend eighth grade being a detective."

She walked across the cafeteria, palms suddenly damp again, heart racing like she'd just mainlined Mountain Dew. Ethan looked up from his phone, those ridiculous cute dimples appearing when he smiled.

"Hey Maya, what's up?"

"Nothing," she said, breathless. "Just wanted to say hi. And that I like the Smiths too."

His face lit up. "No way. You play?"

"Guitar? A little. My uncle taught me."

"We should jam sometime," he said. "I've been looking for someone to start a band with."

Later, Maya would replay this moment in her head approximately seven thousand times. But for now, she just sat down, palms no longer sweating, spy mission officially abandoned, thinking that sometimes real life was way better than any story she could construct from stolen glances and social media posts.