The Fox in Zombie Skin

The vitamin C gummies sat on my nightstand like neon accusations, my mom's last attempt before she left for her business trip. Take two daily, she'd written. I took four instead, chasing them with lukewarm coffee. Maybe if I consumed enough artificial nutrients, I wouldn't feel like such a fraud.

At sixteen, I'd mastered the art of being the reliable friend, the good student, the girl who had it together. Inside, I felt hollow, a total zombie moving through expected motions with plastered-on enthusiasm.

Then I met Leo at Quinn's pool party.

He had this chaotic energy, like he was vibrating at a frequency nobody else could hear. Bright orange hair that defied gravity, eyes that skated across everything as if committing it to memory. Fox-like, I thought immediately. Sharp and quick and beautiful.

We ended up at the edge of the pool, bare legs dangling in the water while everyone else got wasted on cheap beer.

"You don't drink?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious about my own ginger ale.

Leo flashed a grin. "Nah. My dad's an alcoholic. Kinda ruins the appeal."

Something in my chest loosened. "My mom thinks vitamin gummies will fix my existential dread."

He laughed, and the sound was water itself—clear, refreshing, impossible to hold. "We're both walking paradoxons. The zombie with the vitamin addiction, the fox who doesn't party at parties."

"I'm not a zombie."

"Aren't you?" Leo tilted his head. "Moving through life on autopilot, skin-crawling awareness that none of this matters but doing it anyway because what else is there?" He paused. "Same, honestly."

The pool lights fractured across the water, casting shifting patterns against his face. I'd never felt so seen, so exposed.

"What if we stopped being zombies?" I whispered.

Leo's hand found mine underwater. His fingers were long, clever. "What if we did?"

We jumped in fully clothed at midnight, surfacing gasping and alive. Quinn's dad yelled something from the deck but neither of us cared. I'd never felt more awake.

Later, curled on the patio furniture in borrowed sweatshirts, Leo showed me how to steal the stars—pinching them between thumb and forefinger, making them disappear against someone's closed eyelid so they'd see darkness and light simultaneously.

"You're magic," I murmured, eyelids still pressed shut.

"No," he said softly. "I'm just tired of being dead inside."

The water dripped from our hair, creating a small constellation between us. I thought about the vitamins on my nightstand, the zombie masks we all wore, the fox-grinned boy who'd somehow seen through mine.

Maybe growing up wasn't about becoming who you're supposed to be. Maybe it was about finding the people who made you want to be alive.

I texted my mom: Still alive. Found something better than vitamins.

She replied: Good. Love you.

I didn't need to explain. Some things are bigger than words.