Zombie Mode

The notification ping jolted me awake at 6:45 AM. I'd been doom-scrolling until 2 AM, barely conscious, fingers moving on autopilot. Welcome to zombie mode—that exhausted, half-alive state where you're physically present but mentally checked out. My whole school was basically a zombie apocalypse by third period.

"You good, Maya?" Chen asked, sliding into the seat next to me. "You look, like, deceased."

"Living my best undead life," I muttered, shoving my phone into my backpack. The notification count was already at 47. Social media anxiety was real, and I was simp for the stress.

After school, I did what I always did: grabbed my running shoes and leashed up Buster, my ancient golden retriever who'd been with me through everything—middle school awkwardness, my parents' divorce, that time I cut my own bangs (disaster). Buster didn't care if I was cool or if my Instagram engagement was down. He just wanted to run.

We hit the trail behind my subdivision, the one that wound through the woods and ended at this old abandoned warehouse. Me and Buster, running full speed, leaves crunching under our sneakers and paws. This was my escape—no notifications, no expectations, no performative happiness. Just movement and breath and Buster's happy barks.

But today was different.

As we neared the warehouse, I heard something. Not animal sounds. Human sounds. Laughter, music, the rhythmic thud of...was that a bass beat?

Buster's ears perked up. He pulled me toward the noise, and okay, maybe I shouldn't follow a dog toward potentially suspicious activity in an abandoned building, but curiosity won. Through the cracked door, I saw them: a dozen kids from school, dancing like no one was watching, moving with this raw, unapologetic energy. No phones, no posting—just being present.

And there was Chen, grinning like an idiot, doing this ridiculous dance move that was somehow both cringe and amazing.

"Maya!" they shouted when they spotted me. "Join us!"

I hesitated. I was in my gross running clothes, hair a mess, zero filters. But then Buster bounded in, tail wagging like crazy, and someone tossed me a glow stick.

So I danced. I danced like the zombie kid I'd been all week was finally waking up. I danced until my legs burned and my lungs screamed and I forgot about the 47 notifications and the AP Bio test and whatever drama was brewing in the group chat.

Later, Chen and I sat on the warehouse floor, catching our breath while Buster snoozed between us.

"You know what this place is?" Chen asked. "It's Zombie Anonymous. We come here to, like, remember how to be alive."

"Lowkey genius," I said, meaning it.

"You should come back Friday. We're teaching breakdancing."

I smiled, really smiled, for the first time all week. "Bet."

That night, I opened Instagram for the first time since leaving zombie mode. But instead of scrolling, I posted one picture—me, Chen, and the crew, arms around each other's shoulders, Buster photobombing from the bottom of the frame. Caption: "Found the cure for zombie mode. "

The likes rolled in, but I didn't care. I was too busy planning my run for tomorrow, already counting down until I could escape with Buster and just...be.