The Art of Not Dying Inside

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip my phone. Summer in Miami means everything's sticky, but this was different—this was pure, unadulterated social anxiety.

"You good?" Marcus asked, bumping my shoulder. My oldest friend, somehow simultaneously the most chill and terrifyingly observant person I knew.

"Fine," I lied. "Just... processing the sheer amount of college applications everyone's talking about."

That's when she walked in. Zoey Rodriguez, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my car, holding a plate of spinach artichoke dip like it was some kind of weapon. The girl I'd been lowkey crushing on since sophomore year, currently approaching our group with zero hesitation.

"Hey!" she said, way too enthusiastic. "You're the clever one, right? The fox who figured out Mr. Rivera's password last semester?"

I choked on my own spit.

"That was a rumor," I managed, face burning. "I just... guessed."

"Total bull," someone muttered behind me. But Zoey laughed, actually laughed, and suddenly my heart was doing something dangerously aerobic.

The night blurred into rapid-fire conversations about everything and nothing. Someone's older brother bought us those disgusting sparkling waters that taste like betrayal. Zoey kept looking at me like I was actually interesting, like she wasn't the most popular junior in our grade while I was just... background noise with good grades.

Around midnight, she pulled me aside by the volleyball court. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and desperation.

"So," she said, "that story about the password. Was it actually bull?"

"Maybe," I admitted, something loosening in my chest. "Or maybe I just wanted people to think I was capable of being... unexpected."

Her palm found mine in the darkness. "You know what's actually unexpected? Someone genuine at a party full of people performing."

We sat there until 3 AM, talking about everything except what we were really talking about, and I realized I'd spent sixteen years thinking I needed to be clever like a fox, when really I just needed to be brave enough to stop performing.

My palms were still sweating. But somehow, that didn't matter anymore.