The Vitamin A Incident

I felt like a total spy, lurking behind my locker door, watching Jasmine laugh with her friends. My iPhone clutched tight, Instagram feed refreshed for the tenth time. Three months ago, Jasmine and I had been best friends — bonding over our mutual hatred of pineapple on pizza and our obsession with that K-drama where the CEO falls for his secretary.

Now? I was basically invisible.

"Hey, Kai!"

I nearly dropped my phone. It was Marcus, leaning against the lockers like he owned them. Cute, popular Marcus who somehow managed to make the varsity soccer team and maintain a 4.0 GPA without breaking a sweat.

"Party at my place Saturday. You should come."

My brain short-circuited. "Me?"

"Yeah, you. Jasmine said you're cool." He grinned. "7 PM. Don't be weird about it."

I spent three hours getting ready. Mom caught me doing my hair for the fifth time and handed me a vitamin. "You look fine, Kai. You're sixteen, not going to the prom."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't walking into enemy territory with social anxiety and absolutely zero clue how to function around people who weren't her cat.

Marcus's house was huge. Like, actual mansion huge. I hovered near the snack table, clutching a red plastic cup like it was a lifeline. That's when I saw it — a bowl of cut fruit, and there, unmistakable chunks of papaya.

Jasmine appeared beside me. "You gonna stand here all night or actually talk to people?"

"I'm observing," I said. "It's called social reconnaissance."

"You're being a weirdo." She smirked, but her eyes were softer than I expected. "Try the papaya. Marcus's mom gets it from this specialty market. It's actually good."

I took a bite. Sweet, musky, nothing like I expected.

"See? Not everything has to be so scary." She paused. "I missed you, you know."

Before I could respond, my stomach growled — loudly. Someone laughed. My face burned.

Then Jasmine grabbed my arm. "Dude, your iPhone's at 3%. Come on, my room's upstairs. We can charge it and actually talk."

She handed me a cable from her nightstand. "Remember when we stayed up all night watching horror movies and you made me hold your hand every time something jumped out?"

"I was twelve."

"You were terrified." She grinned. "You still are. But you're brave anyway."

We talked until the party downstairs thinned out. About nothing and everything. I realized something: growing up means sometimes things fall apart, but it also means you can put them back together differently. And sometimes, all it takes is a piece of exotic fruit and a dead phone to remember who you actually are.