The Last Orange at Table 7

The orange plastic table had seen better days. Scratch-carved with initials and years of teenage angst, it sat in the far corner of the cafeteria—the designated land of the socially invisible. That's where Maya sat now, exactly three weeks after Leo decided their friendship had expired.

"You need your vitamin D, mija," her mom had said that morning, pressing a chalky tablet into her palm. "For the blues."

The blues. As if sadness were a nutritional deficiency. Maya swallowed the vitamin anyway, chased it with lukewarm orange juice from the cafeteria dispenser. At this point, she was basically a walking, talking GNC advertisement—her mom's new wellness phase meant Maya was now getting supplements for everything. Vitamin C for immunity. Vitamin B for energy. Vitamin whatever for the gaping hole in her social life.

Across the lunchroom, Leo sat at Table 3 with the cool kids. He laughed at something Chloe said, throwing his head back like he'd always done that. Like he hadn't spent seventh period every day last year making up fake languages with Maya at their shared locker. Like he hadn't cried on her shoulder when his parents split.

Maya's phone buzzed. Leo: hey, u coming to chloe's party friday?

She stared at the screen. The Leo she knew would never text lowercase. The Leo she knew hated parties. The Leo she knew would never invite her to hang with the people who'd spent three years making her life quietly miserable in that specific high school way—never bullying, just... existing somewhere she wasn't allowed to be.

She typed: maybe

Deleted it.

Typed: sure

Deleted that too.

Typed: nah im good

Hit send before she could overthink it. Her thumb hovered over the screen, heart pounding like she'd just jumped off something high. Then she opened a new text to Leo—the old Leo, the real one—and typed:

vitamin d deficiency makes u pale. u look like a ghost.

Send.

A minute later, her phone buzzed. lol

Then: im sorry abt everything

Then: table 7 tomorrow?

Maya smiled, just a little, and typed back with the last emoji they'd ever used together before everything went wrong: 🍊

The orange table might still be scratched-up and invisible, but at least she wouldn't be sitting there alone anymore.