Zombie Brain, Sphinx Eyes

I'd been running on caffeine and three hours of sleep, basically operating in full zombie mode while the rest of the world seemed annoyingly awake. Summer pool parties at the Hendersons' were always brutal—the social equivalent of walking barefoot on Legos.

That's when I saw her by the water's edge, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. Maya. The sphinx of sophomore year, impossible to read, with those dark eyes that felt like they were decoding your entire soul while you stumbled through basic conversation.

My brain, currently functioning on 3% battery capacity, decided it was the perfect moment to approach her. Bad idea. Worst idea. But zombie-me had zero filter left.

"Hey," I managed, eloquent as ever. "You're not... swimming?"

Smooth. Truly groundbreaking.

She turned slowly, and I swear I heard ancient Egyptian temple music somewhere in my head. "I'm thinking," she said. "Some of us don't find socializing in wet clothes particularly fulfilling."

The burn was so precise I almost respected it. But then she smiled—barely, but it was there—and something shifted.

"You look like you haven't slept since finals week," she added.

"Roughly accurate," I admitted. "Zombie protocols are fully operational."

She laughed. Actual laugh.

"Wanna sit on the edge and not swim?" she asked. "We can judge everyone else from here."

That was when I realized: sphinxes weren't just about impossible riddles. Sometimes they were just waiting for someone to be real enough to deserve an answer.

We sat there, legs dangling over the water, talking about everything and nothing while the party raged behind us. For the first time all day, my zombie brain felt actually, completely awake.