Zombie Glow Up

Six a.m. practices had turned me into a certified zombie. My hair—normally this perfect cascading curtain that took forty minutes to style—was now perpetually stuffed under a baseball cap, flattened into submission by sweat and exhaustion.

"You look like you died twice," Marcus joked, tossing me a Gatorade.

"Bro, I'm FUNCTIONING on two hours of sleep and three energy drinks," I shot back, cracking the seal. "This is peak high school athlete aesthetic."

Baseball season had always been my thing. But senior year brought this whole new pressure—scouts, recruiters, my dad's voice in my head talking about scholarships like they were golden tickets. The weight of it was making me question everything.

The real disaster happened on Picture Day. I'd finally caved and let my mom talk me into getting "the trim"—you know, the one that was supposed to be subtle but turned into a complete hair massacre. I walked into first period looking like I'd lost a fight with a lawnmower.

And of course, SHE noticed.

"Did you do something different?" Maya asked, sliding into the seat beside me. Her hair was always perfect—these effortless waves that made zero sense because we both had the same curly texture and she'd clearly sold her soul to some hair deity.

"I'm going through an awkward phase," I muttered.

"It's not bad," she said, and the way her eyes did that little crinkle thing when she smiled made my stomach do somersaults. "Actually, it kind of works. Like, you're not trying so hard anymore. It's... authentic."

That word hit different. Authentic.

I'd been performing this version of myself for so long—the baseball player, the chill guy, the one who had everything figured out. But standing on the pitcher's mound that afternoon, sun blazing, sweat dripping, hat pulled low over my terrible haircut, something clicked.

I didn't have to be perfect. I could be the zombie who showed up, who tried, who failed sometimes, who kept going anyway.

"Nice curveball, zombie," Maya called from the bleachers later that afternoon.

I tipped my cap, hair wild underneath, and finally felt like myself. The zombie aesthetic? Yeah, it was staying.