Swipe Through the Apocalypse

Maya's screen cracked three weeks ago when her drop playlist became her life's soundtrack, tumbling onto the concrete during PE. Now her iPhone resembled a spiderweb of bad decisions and worse timing.

"You're literally a zombie," Kira said, smacking Maya's shoulder. "We're supposed to be living."

Living apparently meant getting demolished at padel during Friday night open court. The sport had taken over their suburban Texas town like an invasive species—every parent bought a padel membership, every teen got dragged along.

Maya gripped her racquet. The ball sailed toward her, and she swung. Missed. Again.

"The Bear's watching," Kira whispered, gesturing toward the far fence.

The Bear wasn't an actual bear. It was Lucas—nickname earned after he allegedly wrestled a bear at camp (he hadn't). Three years older, somehow already attending college parties, with hair that fell perfectly even when he supposedly just rolled out of bed.

Maya checked her phone between volleys. Zombie mode engaged. Instagram stories of Lucas at someone's pool, someone's lake house, someone's existence that felt lightyears away from her concrete suburban reality.

"Your parents are like, making you the zombie," Kira said later at Taco Bell, crunching through a nacho. "Always on your case about grades, college apps, your whole future being determined at fifteen. We're all just walking dead."

Maya stared at her cracked screen. A notification popped up: Lucas had viewed her story. The one she'd posted impulsively—her padel failure, her messy hair, the caption "when your coordination is absolutely cooked."

He'd watched it. Not swiped past. Watched.

"Maybe being a zombie's not so bad," Maya said, finally looking up. "At least we're surviving."

Her phone buzzed. Lucas: "ur backhand's tragic but ur form's kinda iconic 🐻"

Maya didn't feel like a zombie anymore. She felt like a person who might just survive high school after all.

"The Bear thinks your backhand's tragic," Kira translated, reading over her shoulder. "But he noticed you. That's what matters."

Maya laughed, pocketing her phone. "Whatever. I'm still not coming to padel next week."

"You say that every Friday."

"And every Friday I mean it."

They both knew she'd be back. Some horrors—like padel at seven on a Friday—were worth enduring. Especially now that the Bear was watching.