Zombie Mode

I was operating on about ten percent battery, sliding into homeroom with the smooth, practiced hopelessness of someone who'd accepted their fate. Marcus caught my eye from across the room and jerked his chin toward the door—our signal to bail before the morning announcements could drain what little life force remained.

"You look like actual death," he observed as we slumped against the lockers in the hallway. "Rough night?"

"Rough life," I corrected, though the truth was I'd just stayed up until 3 AM doom-scrolling, trapped in that familiar zombie state where your body's technically awake but your soul has already left the chat. "Anyway, you coming to the game?"

"Baseball? On purpose?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Eli, you hate sports. You once called organized athletics 'capitalism disguised as exercise.'"

"Yeah, but Sophie's going, and apparently the whole baseball team is, like, weirdly hot this year." I adjusted my backpack strap, already regretting everything. "I need a wingman."

Marcus sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if I die of boredom, I'm haunting you forever."

Fast-forward to the game, where I was definitely not vibing. The stands were packed, everyone screaming about things I didn't understand, and Sophie was three rows down, looking impossibly radiant while explaining the rules to someone else. I was contemplating faking a sudden illness when Marcus nudged me.

"Dude, check it out. That guy's goldfish is totally having a moment." He pointed to a kid in the front row holding a clear plastic bag with a fish swimming inside. "Bet he won it at the carnival or something."

"Who brings a goldfish to a baseball game?" I muttered, but then I noticed something: Sophie had turned around, laughing at the absurdity of the situation, and our eyes actually locked. For like, three seconds. She smiled.

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to organ function.

"Did you see that?" I hisked at Marcus, suddenly very awake. "She smiled at ME."

"Bro, she was smiling at the goldfish," he said, then paused. "But, like, in a good way. You should go talk to her."

"What? No. Absolutely not. I can't just—"

"Eli." Marcus grabbed my shoulders. "You've been in zombie mode for MONTHS. This is your sign. Go. Now. Before I rethink being the best friend in history and steal your shot."

So I went. And okay, the conversation started awkward—something about how it was "bold accessory choices" to bring a pet fish to a sporting event. But Sophie laughed. And then we talked. For actual innings. About stuff that mattered—music, our weird existential dread, how we both felt like zombies going through the motions of high school.

The fish's owner, whose name was apparently Kevin, eventually joined our conversation. We formed this strange little trio by the third inning, and I realized Marcus was right: I'd been sleepwalking through everything, waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen.

Sophie and I walked to her mom's car after the game. The goldfish, now named Bubbles, swam happily in his bag beside Kevin, who'd become part of our unlikely friend group in the span of two hours.

"Same time next week?" Sophie asked, smiling like she actually meant it.

"For sure," I said, and the craziest part was: I wasn't lying.

Marcus found me later by the concession stand, grinning like he knew something I didn't. "So? You alive again?"

"Yeah," I admitted, feeling something genuine bubbling in my chest for the first time in forever. "I think I finally woke up."