Thunder and the Afterlife

Maya dragged herself through the front door, feeling like a member of the walking dead after three hours of AP Bio practice. Her mom immediately greeted her with the usual interrogation.

"Did you take your **vitamin**? And did you finish that college essay?"

"Yes and almost," Maya lied, grabbing a juice box and retreating to her room. Her orange tabby Cat padded in behind her, meowing for attention like the tiny dictator he was.

The truth was, Maya hadn't started the essay. She hadn't even picked a topic. Every time she sat down to write, she felt like a fraud. Who was she outside of grades, test scores, and the endless carousel of expectations?

A flash of **lightning** illuminated her window, followed by thunder that rattled the glass. The storm outside matched the chaos in her head.

Cat jumped onto her desk and knocked over a stack of college brochures.

"You know what?" Maya told him. "Maybe that's a sign."

She opened her laptop and started typing. Not the polished essay about academic achievements that her guidance counselor wanted. Instead, she wrote about feeling like a **zombie** navigating high school half-alive, about the pressure to be perfect when she barely knew who she was, about finding small moments of realness in a world that felt manufactured.

Another lightning strike crackled, closer this time. Maya kept typing, tears mixing with a sudden laugh at the absurdity of it all. For the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was sleepwalking.

Cat curled up beside the keyboard, purring like a tiny engine of approval.

By midnight, Maya had written something messy and honest and completely hers. The essay wasn't perfect—but for once, neither was she.

And honestly? That felt like everything.