Three Seconds Underwater

The **goldfish** had survived three weeks of Maya's ownership, which was honestly longer than anyone expected. Its name was Toast, and it lived in a murky bowl on her nightstand, watching her panic about tonight in the mirror.

Maya's room looked like a costume store explosion. She'd spent hours on her **zombie** makeup - grey foundation, fake wounds made of toilet paper and glue, dark circles under her eyes. The irony wasn't lost on her: she felt like a zombie most days anyway, thanks to cross-country practice and AP Euro and her mom's new work schedule that meant they barely spoke anymore.

Her phone buzzed. Group chat blowing up about Leo's party. Everyone was going. Well, everyone except the people who were too cool or too awkward. Maya hovered somewhere in the middle, which was somehow worse than being either extreme.

"You're NOT wearing that," her little brother said from the doorway, holding up a stuffed **bear** from when he was five. It was missing an ear and had suspicious stains. "This is your costume."

"Get out, Jordan."

"Mom says you have to leave in ten. Also, you look dead."

"That's the POINT."

The walk to Leo's felt endless. Maya's **palm**s were sweating so much she kept wiping them on her dress, leaving dark streaks on the fabric. Why had she agreed to this? Parties were basically social minefields where you stood around holding red solo cups pretending to have fun. The music would be too loud, someone would cry in the bathroom, and she'd spend three hours overthinking every interaction.

She almost turned back twice.

But then she saw him.

Sam was standing on Leo's front porch, laughing at something someone said, looking effortless in a flannel shirt. His hair was messy in that way that probably took actual effort. Maya's stomach did that stupid flutter thing it always did when he was around, like Toast bumping into the side of its bowl again and again.

She couldn't NOT go in now.

The party was exactly as bad as she'd expected. The bass vibrated in her chest. Someone had spilled something sticky on the carpet. Maya found herself in the kitchen, staring at a bowl of orange snacks that looked suspiciously like fish food, wondering if she could just stay here until it was socially acceptable to leave.

"You're Maya, right? Cross-country?"

She turned. Sam. Standing there. ACTUALLY TALKING TO HER.

"Yeah. Hi."

"Cool costume." He grinned. "You look... dead. But, like, in a good way?"

Maya laughed, and for the first time all night, she didn't feel like pretending. They talked about nothing - about how their history teacher gave too much homework, about the time someone threw up on the bus back from a meet, about how weird it was that they'd known each other since seventh grade but never actually had a real conversation.

And then his phone buzzed. "Oh, my friends are leaving. You need a ride?"

"No, I'm good."

"Cool. See you Monday?"

"Yeah. See you Monday."

He left, and Maya stood there for a moment, her heart beating way too fast, and realized something: she'd survived. She'd talked to SAM for twenty minutes, and she hadn't died of awkwardness. Maybe she could **bear** these parties after all.

The walk home felt different. Lighter. The world looked the same - same streetlamps, same sidewalks, same nervousness about Monday morning - but something had shifted inside her chest. Some tightness had loosened.

Back in her room, Toast swam to the front of his bowl and stared at her with his weird fishy eyes.

"You won't believe it," she whispered, washing the zombie makeup off her face. "But tonight wasn't terrible."

Her phone buzzed. Sam had sent her a meme about their history teacher.

Maya grinned, her palms dry for the first time all night.

Sometimes the universe gave you moments that made all the awkwardness worth it. You just had to survive the party first.