When the Lights Went Out

Maya's room was her sanctuary, or at least it was supposed to be. She'd spent forty-five minutes on her eyeliner, fifteen choosing the perfect filter, and exactly three days overthinking whether to wear the green sweater that made her look "aesthetic" or whatever.

Her crush, Alex, was finally going to voice chat with her. Like, one-on-one. This was it.

Then her **dog**, Buster—a chaotic golden retriever mix who answered to no one—started barking like he'd spotted a squirrel through a closed window. Maya's mom yelled from downstairs: "Maya! Did you remember to feed him? He's acting weird again!"

"Got it!" Maya hissed through gritted teeth, gesturing wildly at her laptop screen where Alex's face froze mid-laugh.

The **lightning** struck—literally. The sky outside her window cracked open, purple veins of electricity illuminating her disaster of a bedroom: laundry mountain, half-empty water glasses, a poster she'd meaning to straighten since October.

Everything went dark.

"No, no, no," Maya whispered as her laptop screen died. The WiFi. The moment. Her dignity.

"Maya?" Alex's voice came through her phone backup. "You okay?"

"Yeah! Just... weather stuff. Be right back!"

She scrambled downstairs in the darkness, phone flashlight cutting through shadows. Her parents were already doing their thing—her dad with the flashlight under his chin like he was telling ghost stories, her mom making it weirdly romantic, "Oh look, candlelight dinner." They were eating dinner by candlelight. **Spinach** salad. Because of course they were.

"The internet's down," Maya said, knowing exactly what this meant.

"Cable company's probably working on it," her dad said, perfectly chill. "Why don't you join us? It's actually nice without screens for once."

Maya stood there, bathed in candlelight and secondhand embarrassment, realizing something weird: her parents were actually kind of cute. They were holding hands across the spinach salad, making dumb jokes about how this is what people did in the "old days."

"Hey Alex," she said into her phone. "Wanna hear something embarrassing?"

"Always."

"I'm currently trapped in a candlelit dinner with my parents and a spinach salad, and my dog is trying to eat a napkin."

Alex laughed, and it sounded genuine. "That's actually kind of amazing."

"Right?" Maya felt something loosen in her chest. "Worst case scenario: we talk like actual humans instead of scrolling through our phones."

"Deal."

Outside, another storm cell was moving in. But inside, Maya realized something: maybe the moments that felt like disasters were actually the ones worth remembering. And maybe, just maybe, someone who liked her during the spinach incident was someone worth keeping around.