The Summer I Logged Off

The summer before junior year, I was basically a zombie. Not the brain-eating kind — the iPhone-scrolling, zombie-like kind. My thumb had a permanent dent from refreshing Instagram every three seconds, and my dog, Buster, had started giving me judgmental looks from his bed like he knew I was wasting my life.

"You're going to padel practice," Mom announced one Tuesday, dropping my racquet bag at my feet. "Your grades hit rock bottom, and your social battery is apparently non-existent. Fresh air. Now."

Padel was this sport all the popular kids played — basically tennis but cooler, with walls and weird scoring that made zero sense until you played. I dreaded it. But there I was, standing at the court while my phone sat in my locker, dead and ignored.

First day? Disaster. I tripped over my own feet, somehow managed to hit the ball backward, and landed flat on my butt while everyone watched. Chelsea, the girl whose stories I'd been doom-scrolling all year, actually laughed. Not mean laughter — the genuine, can't-help-it kind.

"Yo, you good?" she asked, offering a hand.

Her fingers were wrapped in bright blue tape. "Your form's all wrong. You're playing like you're trying to disappear."

"Maybe I am," I muttered before I could stop myself.

That was the thing about Chelsea. She didn't let things get awkward. Instead of walking away, she spent the next hour teaching me how to actually hit the ball. We talked about everything except social media — her obsession with vintage vinyl, my secret dream of becoming a photographer, how Buster was probably the only living being who truly understood me.

"I deleted TikTok last month," she confessed during a water break. "Felt like my brain was turning into zombie mush. Plus, I kept comparing myself to people who aren't even real half the time."

That hit different.

By August, something shifted. I was still checking my phone — habits don't magically vanish — but I was spending more time at the courts, more time being actually present. Chelsea and I started going to this vinyl shop after practice, and I finally took those photography classes I'd been talking about for years.

The night before school started, I posted one picture: a grainy, candid shot of Chelsea mid-serve, arms stretched toward the sky, completely in her element. No filters, no careful curation. Just real.

My phone buzzed like crazy for about an hour. Then I turned it off, called for Buster, and went outside.

The zombie scroll could wait.