Zombie Mode

I'd been running on empty since finals week started—total zombie mode. My dad kept leaving those orange gummy vitamins on my desk like they were some magical solution to my sleep-deprived existence. Meanwhile, I was doom-scrolling until 3 AM, watching everyone else's perfect lives play out in highlight reels.

Then the storm hit. Thunder rattled my window like it was trying to get my attention, and a flash of lightning illuminated everything I'd been trying to ignore.

Maya texted: u up?

Always, I typed back, even though I was barely functioning.

She was having a crisis about being the only one who didn't get invited to Jordan's party. Again. I'd been there two weeks ago—staring at my phone, refreshing the group chat, pretending I didn't care when the plans happened without me.

The truth hit me like the next lightning crack: I'd been walking through high school like a zombie, trying to be whoever would get picked. Taking whatever social vitamin I thought would make me enough—interesting enough, cool enough, worth showing up for.

I called Maya instead of texting. We talked for two hours about everything and nothing. About how we both felt like background characters in everyone else's stories. About how exhausting it was, performing versions of ourselves that didn't even feel real.

The storm cleared around midnight. Something in me did too.

The next day, I sat with Maya at lunch instead of chasing the table where the popular kids sat. I finally took those vitamins my dad kept leaving—not because they'd fix anything, but because he noticed I wasn't okay. And I started being the person who shows up for the people who show up for me.

Real connection beats being chosen every time. That's the only vitamin that actually works.