Zombie Breakfast Club

Maya dragged herself to the kitchen like a **zombie**, eyes barely open, still processing the disastrous text she'd sent to Jason last night. Why did her brain always choose 2 AM to compose social suicide messages?

Her **cat**, Luna, wound around her legs demanding breakfast, while Cooper, the family **dog**, snoozed obliviously on the couch. Typical. Even the pets had their lives together more than she did.

"You're eating that?" Her mom pointed at Maya's plate. "Again?"

Maya stared at her breakfast: sliced **papaya** (organic, $7.99) next to a carefully arranged assortment of supplements. One **vitamin** C, one B-complex, something with iron that tasted like regret. Her mom's latest Instagram influencer had sworn this combo would transform Maya's skin, her mood, her entire pathetic sixteen-year-old existence.

"It's fine," Maya mumbled, though it definitely wasn't. The papaya tasted like disappointment.

Her phone buzzed. Jason had REPLYING ALL to her accidental mass text. The one where she'd confessed her crush on him. To everyone. Including his girlfriend.

"You okay?" Her mom's face softened. "You look... tired."

"I'm good," Maya lied, grabbing her backpack. "Just zoning out."

Cooper lifted his head, thumped his tail once. Luna meowed, as if calling her out. The pets knew. They always knew.

Outside, the California sun mocked her existential crisis. School loomed—eight hours of pretending she wasn't dying inside, of navigating hallways where yesterday's embarrassments echoed forever. But then she remembered: everyone else was probably faking it too. Even Jason, even his girlfriend, even the people who seemed to have everything figured out.

Maybe being a **zombie** was just part of growing up. And maybe, just maybe, she'd eventually graduate to being a functional human. Until then, at least she had her **cat** and **dog**, and the knowledge that tomorrow, she could try again. One awkward, papaya-filled day at a time.