Vitamin C-Section

Maya moved through the hallways like a zombie, hoodie pulled up, coffee in hand, three hours of sleep fueling her zombie walk. Junior year was eating her brain cells, one AP Bio lecture at a time.

Then she saw him. Tres, the new kid, leaning against his locker like this was a music video, drinking from a giant neon orange water bottle. His hair was this absolutely wild orange—the kind of orange that says my parents gave up trying to stop me years ago. He caught her staring and smiled, and Maya nearly walked into a door.

"You look like you need this," he said the next day, sliding a vitamin packet across the lunch table. "B-complex. Saved my life when I was doing online school."

Maya blinked. "You carried vitamin supplements in your pocket?"

"I'm quirky," Tres said with a grin that was annoying because it was working. "Also, your zombie vibe is concerning. I'm intervening."

And just like that, Maya had a routine. Meet Tres at his locker. Take the vitamin he insisted she needed. Talk about everything and nothing while he taught her that orange didn't have to be a warning sign—it could be a statement. His hair. The sunsets they watched from the bleachers. The way her chest felt warm when he laughed at her terrible jokes.

"You know," Tres said one afternoon, "the vitamin thing was just an excuse to talk to you."

Maya's heart did something complicated. "I know. I kept taking them anyway."

The zombie haze lifted. Not because of the vitamins, definitely not. But because someone noticed. Because orange wasn't just a color anymore—it was the highlight of her Tuesday afternoons, the color of Tres's favorite hoodie that he let her wear when she forgot hers, the exact shade of the sunrise they watched during first period when they both pretended to be sick.

Some vitamins really do save lives. Just not the ones you buy at CVS.