The Orange Hat Incident

The orange wasn't supposed to be that orange. That was the first problem.

The second problem? I was literally swimming in cable wires, trying to look like I knew what I was doing at my cousin's pool party slash 'networking event' (read: adults pretending they weren't just there to show off their new patio furniture).

"You good with that connection?" Marcus asked, pointing at the tangle of ethernet cables behind the TV setup. Marcus, who had somehow already figured out his whole life trajectory by age seventeen, while I was still struggling to decide between 'person who exists' and 'person who slightly exists.'

"Totally got it," I said, casually faking confidence.

I did not got it.

In my defense, the hat wasn't helping. My aunt had insisted I wear this ridiculous fedora thing because 'it adds character' (it did not). The hat combined with the highlighter-orange soda I'd spilled earlier meant I looked like a walking caution sign.

"You're doing great," said Riley, the only person here who seemed to actually notice I was dying inside. She was sitting on the pool edge, feet in the water, giving me this look that was equal parts amusement and I see you.

Something about Riley's vibe made me feel less like performing and more like... existing. Without the performance part.

"The hat's working," she said, deadpan but smiling.

"It's not.

"It's really not."

We both laughed, and suddenly the cables made sense. The orange wasn't so ridiculous anymore. I was still swimming in social anxiety overdrive, but for the first time all afternoon, I felt like maybe I could actually figure this out—figuring myself out.

"Wanna help me with this?" I asked, gesturing to the mess.

"Obviously," she said, hopping off the edge. "Somebody's gotta save you from yourself."