When We Were Almost Dead

The summer after sophomore year, I started feeling like a zombie. Not the cool, Netflix kind — more like the way my mom looked after her third shift at the hospital. Shuffle to kitchen, shuffle to couch, shuffle through another episode of whatever was streaming, repeat.

My dog Barnaby was the only one who noticed. He'd nudge my hand with his wet nose like, "Bro, you good?" and I'd just scratch behind his ears and feel like a fraud because my biggest problem was that I'd basically ghosted everyone after that incident at Maya's party.

I'd tried to kiss her. She'd laughed. Not mean-laughed, but that I-can't-believe-you-actually-thought-you-had-a-chance laugh. Worse than rejection — it was pity.

So I did what any self-respecting fifteen-year-old would do: I avoided humanity entirely.

Until my dad came home with a papaya.

"Try this," he said, dropping this weird alien-fruit on the kitchen counter. "It's supposed to be good for... I don't know, everything."

It sat there for three days, looking like something that might hatch at midnight. But eventually I got curious enough to Google "how to eat papaya without dying" and learned you're supposed to scoop out the seeds (which look exactly like what comes out of zombies in movies, ironically).

First bite: weird. Second bite: actually kind of fire. Like if cantaloupe went through a glow-up and started hanging out with cooler fruit.

I texted Maya: "Okay but have you ever tried papaya?"

Five minutes later: "Omg yes. My abuela makes me eat it with lime and chili powder."

"That sounds suspicious," I replied.

"Trust nothing, come over and try it properly."

And just like that, the zombie fog lifted. Not instantly, and not forever — social anxiety doesn't just disappear because you eat tropical fruit. But I grabbed Barnaby's leash and walked to Maya's house feeling like maybe, just maybe, I could be alive again.

"You look less dead," she said when she opened the door, and honestly? That's all I needed to hear.