The Menagerie in My Head

The house felt too quiet, which was exactly the problem. Mom's car wasn't in the driveway, and Dad's truck had been gone since before I woke up. Again.

I sprawled across my bed, Doom-scrolling through Instagram while my phone battery slowly died. Everyone else's parents were at the fall showcase. Maya's mom had posted like twelve photos already. #ProudMomMoment #OurFutureStar

Meanwhile, I was babysitting myself. At seventeen.

The **dog** next door started barking—that incessant, rhythmic yip-yip-yip that made me want to launch my phone through the window. Mrs. Henderson's pug, Buster, had separation anxiety or something. I got it. Some days I felt like barking at nothing too.

My stomach growled. I'd eaten exactly one granola bar since breakfast.

That's when I heard it. A crash in the backyard, followed by a weird yowl. Not a cat. Something bigger. Heart hammering, I crept to the window, peeking through the blinds like I was in a horror movie instead of my own life.

There, by the oak tree, a massive **bear** was rummaging through the garbage cans like it owned the place.

No. Wait. Not a bear.

I grabbed my phone, zooming in, and almost dropped it. A guy in a bear costume—a full-on mascot head and everything—was dramatically reciting what looked like Shakespeare. With British affectation and everything.

"To be, or not to be—"

The neighbor's **cat**, a calico that usually ignored everyone, sat on the fence, watching him like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I stood there, frozen. Was I hallucinating? Was this what seventeen felt like?

Then the bear guy spun around and spotted me at the window.

We stared at each other. Dead silence. Even Buster stopped barking.

Then the bear yelled, "WANT TO HEAR ABOUT EXISTENTIAL DREAD?"

And something in me cracked open. I laughed. Like, actually laughed, not that fake social media laugh I'd been doing all week.

"YEAH," I yelled back. "ME TOO."

His name turned out to be Leo. He'd borrowed the costume from the school drama department because apparently that's a thing you can do if you ask nicely enough. His parents were also at the showcase, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

So we sat on my back porch, me in my oversized hoodie, him in a bear head that he refused to take off because "the bear is the vessel of truth."

We talked until the sun went down. About how it felt like everyone else had their life figured out while we were just improvising. About the pressure to pick a college, a career, a whole identity before we could even rent a car. About how sometimes you just want to put on a costume and yell poetry at the universe because nothing makes sense anyway.

"The bear represents the duality of man," Leo said, gesturing with a paw.

"You're just messing with me now," I said, but I was smiling.

"Maybe. Or maybe the bear knows something we don't."

The cat jumped down and wandered over, rubbing against his furry leg like it was completely normal.

"See? The cat approves."

When my parents finally got home, Leo had already left, but he'd written something on a napkin: "EXISTENTIAL CRISIS CLUB: MEET TOMORROW @ SUNSET. BRING SNACKS."

I taped it to my mirror.

Some days still felt weird and quiet. But at least now I knew I wasn't the only one who felt like I was wearing a costume, waiting for someone to yell "CUT!" so I could finally take it off and figure out who I actually was.

And honestly? That felt like something.