When Zombies Kiss in the Rain

The goldfish died on a Tuesday, which felt unfairly poetic. Flop — my childhood companion for three years — floating sideways in his bowl like he'd just given up on being inspirational. I stood there in my fuzzy pajama pants, zombie-like from staying up until 3AM doom-scrolling through Leo's Instagram, watching my pet's final moments. Mom found me ten minutes later still staring at the bowl, mascara already tracking down my face like I was in some tragic music video.

"It's just a fish, Maya," she said, but she didn't get it. Flop had been there through everything: my brace-face phase, my first C in math, the time I accidentally dyed my hair green. Now he was gone, and I had to face the school's fall formal alone.

Except, I didn't have to face it alone.

Leo — actual human Leo, not the Instagram version — slid into the seat next to me in third period US History. His eyes had that same zombie quality mine probably had, like we'd both survived on caffeine and existential dread.

"Rough morning?" he asked, and somehow that was all it took.

We started talking. Really talking. About how Mr. Harrison's lectures could raise the dead, about the bull — my dad's nickname for his angry IRS auditor that was making our life hell, about how we both felt like we were bearing the weight of expectations we never asked for.

"My parents think I'm gonna be a doctor," Leo confessed, spinning a pen between his fingers. "I haven't told them I'd rather study art."

"My parents think I'm too sensitive," I admitted. "Like feelings are something you can just turn off."

The bell rang, but Leo didn't move. "Want to skip?"

I should've said no. I should've gone to pre-calc. Instead, I found myself walking toward the wooded trail behind school, Leo's hand accidentally-on-purpose brushing against mine.

"What about Flop?" he asked suddenly. "You okay about your fish?"

I stopped walking. "How did you —"

"I saw your story last night. The goldfish funeral seemed... intense."

I laughed, this weird choked sound. "I'm being dramatic, aren't I?"

"No," Leo said, turning to face me. "You're feeling things. That's not dramatic. That's being human."

Rain started falling, gentle at first, then harder. We took shelter under this massive oak tree, shoulders pressed together, watching the storm transform everything. Leo looked at me, really looked at me, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about Flop anymore, or the bull, or bearing anything.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, and my zombie heart somehow started beating again.

Later, dripping wet and grinning like fools as we ran back toward school, I realized something: growing up isn't about the things you lose. It's about what you find in the rain, when you're brave enough to feel it all.