The Art of Faking It

The party was already mid-swim when I arrived, and I immediately regretted everything. My social anxiety hit different levels—like, why did I think showing up fashionably late was a good idea when I barely knew anyone?

I spotted Mia across the room, looking effortless in that way that makes you hate her a little. She was surrounded by the popular crowd, all laughing like they'd shared some inside joke since birth. I pulled out my **iPhone** and pretended to be deeply fascinated by absolutely nothing, thumb scrolling through apps I'd opened three times already.

"Yo, Marcus!" Jake called out, stumbling toward me with that energy. "You made it!" He clapped my shoulder too hard. "Come meet Luna." He gestured to his chocolate lab, who was currently knocking over a solo cup. "Best **dog** ever, right?"

Luna barked and proceeded to wag her tail into someone's leg, spraying leftover drink everywhere. Perfect.

I inched toward the patio for escape and found Mia there alone, leaning against the railing. The evening air had that specific summer smell—cut grass and distant thunder.

"Hiding too?" she asked, not looking over.

"Something like that," I said, suddenly hyper-aware that I'd been holding my phone like a shield.

She laughed, but it wasn't mean. "Jake's parties are always like swimming in a tank with too many fish." She nodded toward a bowl on the patio rail. "Case in point—someone brought their **goldfish**. Said they couldn't leave it alone for the weekend."

I looked. A single goldfish swam in lazy circles, completely unbothered by the chaos inside.

"That's... oddly poetic," I said.

"Right?" Mia turned to face me, and for the first time all night, I didn't feel like I was performing something. "Sometimes I wish I could just float like that. Instead I'm always in my head, overthinking everything."

"**Bear** with me here," I said, then immediately wanted to die. "That was terrible."

But she laughed. "It was, but I appreciate the effort."

Thunder rumbled closer, and someone yelled that it was going to storm. The party started its sudden dissolution—people grabbing things, calling rides. Mia looked at me like she was going to say something else, but then Jake burst onto the patio.

"Yo! Storm's coming! Everyone bail!"

Mia hesitated. "Hey, you want—"

"I should probably go," I said, because apparently I was committed to making the wrong choice.

"Yeah," she said, but she didn't move. "See you Monday?"

"Monday," I agreed.

As I walked home in the first drops of rain, I pulled out my phone and saw she'd followed me on Instagram. Small victories. Maybe next time I wouldn't be such a goldfish—swimming in the same nervous circles, too scared to actually talk. But for now, this was enough.