The Digital Undead

The water glowed like liquid **orange** beneath the string lights, each bulb a tiny sun caught in glass. Maya stood at the edge of Jackson's pool, clutching her **iPhone** like it might actually save her from drowning in social awkwardness.

"You coming in or what?" Chloe called from the deep end, already surrounded by a laughing cluster of popular kids. Maya forced a smile, thumbs hovering over her screen. Her notification bar stayed empty. Zero texts. Zero snaps. The only thing **zombie**-like here was her, scrolling through everyone else's perfect night while her own happened somewhere she wasn't.

She'd spent forty-five minutes curating her pre-party outfit post—vintage converse, strategically messy bun, the kind of effortless that actually took maximum effort. Now, three hours into Jackson's birthday bash, she'd barely spoken two sentences beyond "thanks for inviting me" and "cool house."

The refreshments table offered escape. Maya reached for what she thought was mango—smoothie essentials, right?—and almost gagged. **Papaya**. The most pretentious fruit in existence, something people ate on Instagram, not in real life. She swallowed anyway, determined to fake normalcy.

"That stuff's gross, right?" A guy stood beside her, dipping chips into guacamole with terrifying efficiency. Ethan from AP Bio, the quiet one who sat in the back and skated through group projects without actually doing anything.

"It's an experience," Maya said, and they both cracked up. Something real, finally.

"Wanna get out of here?" Ethan gestured toward the pool's edge. "Actual swimming. No phones, no performance. Just... water."

Her **iPhone** sat on the table, screen dimming. Maya looked at it, then at the **orange**-lit water, then at Ethan waiting for her answer. She made her choice.

They cannonballed in at the exact same moment, surfacing spluttering and breathless, and for the first time all night, Maya didn't think about how anything looked. She just felt entirely, spectacularly alive.