When the Lights Went Out

Maya stood in the corner of Jake's basement, clutching a red solo cup like it was a lifeline. The party was supposed to be legendary, but she felt like a zombie going through the motions of being alive. Everyone else seemed to know exactly how to exist in this loud, sweaty space—how to lean against the wall just right, how to laugh at jokes that weren't even funny. Maya just felt dead inside.

She'd spent forty minutes on her outfit. Her phone battery was at 8%. She was basically the walking dead at this point.

Then the power cut.

Total darkness. Someone screamed, but it was mostly excitement, mixed with the obligatory "it's fine, it's fine" from Jake, who was definitely freaking out. Lightning flashed through the basement windows, turning everything strobe-lit and weird. Maya's phone died. Zero percent. Ghost mode activated.

In the chaos, someone knocked into her, splashing bright orange papaya juice all over her white shirt. Her cousin's experimental tropical punch recipe—gone wrong, apparently.

"Oh my GOD, I'm so sorry!"

Maya looked up. It was Jake. The Jake. Host Jake. Who she'd been lowkey crushing on since freshman orientation. And she was standing there looking like a zombie victim from a fruit massacre.

She started laughing. She couldn't help it. "Dude, your punch literally just assaulted me."

Jake cracked up too. "Okay, that papaya monstrosity was definitely a mistake. I'm Jake. And you're now officially the coolest person here because you didn't scream at me."

"Maya. And I'm literally covered in tropical failure."

"Tropical failure is iconic though." Another lightning flash illuminated his grin. "Wanna hang out upstairs? My room has fairy lights and no disastrous fruit cocktails."

Maya wiped orange sticky stuff from her collar. Her phone was dead. Her shirt was ruined. And somehow, she'd never felt more alive.

"Lead the way."