Vitamin Z for Zombie

Maya's mom had shoved the bottle of gummy vitamins at her that morning, eyes widening with maternal desperation. "You look like a zombie, honey. You need these." Maya had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, shoving the bottle into her backpack without another word. She wasn't a zombie. She was just tired. There was a difference.

Now, standing at the edge of Jordan's backyard party at 11 PM, Maya's palms were sweating so much she might as well have been holding a melting snow cone. Everyone looked so effortless—laughing in clusters, red solo cups like fashion accessories. Meanwhile, Maya stood by the fence like a stalker, her pulse doing jumping jacks.

"Yo, you good?" A voice cut through her spiral. Connor. His hair was doing that floppy thing that made girls act like complete foxes around him, flipping hair and laughing too loud at his jokes. Maya wasn't immune—she'd definitely watched his Instagram stories more times than she'd admit.

"Yeah, just..." Maya wiped her palm on her jeans. "You know how it is."

"First party?" When she nodded, something shifted in his expression. "Dude, same. Last year I literally hid in someone's bathroom for forty-five minutes because I didn't know how to leave conversations."

Maya laughed—a real one, not her usual nervous giggle. "No way."

"Swear on my dog's life." He pulled out his phone, showing her a picture of a Golden Retriever wearing a cone of shame. "This is Buster. He's the only living thing I'm comfortable around."

"That's the cutest thing I've ever seen."

"Right? He's currently at home asleep on my pillow. Meanwhile, I'm out here pretending to be socially functional."

The conversation flowed easier after that. They talked about teachers who gave too much homework, the anxiety of group projects, how neither of them understood why people acted different around certain friends. Connor admitted he'd been taking vitamin D supplements because his mom said he looked pale.

"We're such zombies," Maya said, and this time, it didn't feel like an insult.

"But like, aware zombies?" Connor grinned. "Zombies with emotional intelligence."

Maya's phone buzzed—her mom asking if she needed a ride. Standing there under the string lights, palms finally dry, talking to someone who got it, Maya typed back: I'm good. Actually, I'm great.

For the first time in forever, she didn't feel like a zombie at all.