The Zombie Who Learned to Swim

I'd been walking around like a **zombie** for three months straight—ever since Jordan dumped me via Snap in the middle of homeroom. My friends kept saying I needed to get back out there, but honestly? I was thriving in my cave of Netflix and self-pity.

Then my mom signed me up for summer camp. Because nothing says "healing" quite being forced to play **baseball** with a bunch of random teens when you haven't picked up a bat since Little League. The first day, I literally struck out on a pitch that bounced. Twice.

"You good?" this girl Riley asked, trying not to laugh. She had this wild **cat** eye liner and zero patience for my drama queen energy.

"I'm just living my best life," I said, deadpan.

She snorted. "Sure you are, **zombie** girl."

The nickname stuck. Which was humiliating, but also kind of accurate?

The turning point happened during free time. I was hiding by the creek when I spotted this injured **fox** by the water's edge. Its leg was caught in some old fishing line. I froze, then made this split-second decision to actually do something.

Wading into the creek, I started **swimming** toward it—fully dressed, phone in pocket, absolutely zero thought given to consequences. The fox watched me with these golden, judging eyes as I cut it loose.

It scampered off, paused, looked back like "thanks, loser," and vanished.

I climbed out soaking wet, phone destroyed, but feeling something shift inside me. Riley found me sitting by the bank, laughing hysterically at my own stupidity.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I think I just stopped being dead inside," I said.

She sat down next to me. "Good. Because being a **zombie** is boring. And you're actually kind of interesting when you're not brooding."

We sat there until sunset, talking about everything and nothing. I didn't fix my life that summer, but I did stop moving through it like the walking dead. Sometimes that's enough.