The Sphinx in the Wiring

The HDMI cable wasn't just loose—it was actively plotting against me, I swear.

I was already sweating through my favorite vintage band tee when Mr. Henderson pointed me toward the backstage chaos. "Maya, you're good with tech, right? Can you check the projector for the talent show?"

"Sure," I'd said, confident. That was before I discovered the wiring situation back here was held together by hope and duct tape.

I knelt behind the curtain, tracing the cable through a tangle that looked like something straight out of a sci-fi nightmare. My hands were shaking slightly—not because of the wires, but because *he* was out there. Leo. The one who sat behind me in history and smelled like cedar and whatever opposite-of-basic-boys-wore these days.

The thought made my stomach do that embarrassing flippy thing.

"You need help?"

I jumped and practically face-planted into the projector stand. Leo. Of course he was back here. Of course he'd caught me mid-meltdown.

"The cable's being stubborn," I said, recovering smoothly-ish. "It's like fighting a sphinx. You solve one riddle, there's another waiting."

Leo laughed—not the fake kind, but real. "Let me see."

He knelt beside me, and suddenly we were both crouched in this tiny space behind the curtains, his shoulder pressing against mine. I could feel my face heating up, grateful for the dim lighting.

"There," he said, reaching around me to plug something in. His arm brushed mine and I stopped breathing for a second. "Should work now."

The projector flickered to life, casting the school logo across the backstage wall. We'd done it. Together.

"Thanks," I said, standing up too fast and nearly tripping over my own converse. Smooth.

Leo held out something wrapped in foil. "My abuela made empanadas. But also... have you ever tried papaya?"

"Can't say I have."

"It's an experience." His grin was doing things to my heart rate that should probably be medical concerns. "Try it."

I took a bite. Sweet, weirdly musky, nothing like I expected. "Interesting."

"That's one way to put it." Leo checked his phone. "Crap, I'm running late for soundcheck. You coming?"

"Yeah," I said, and something settled in my chest—light and warm and terrifying and perfect. "Yeah, I'm coming."

We walked out together, and for the first time all night, I wasn't thinking about the cables, or the sphinx-like complexity of teenage social dynamics, or whether my hair looked okay.

I was just walking with Leo toward the stage, papaya aftertaste and all, feeling like maybe—just maybe—I didn't have to have everything figured out yet.

Sometimes that's enough.