Zombie Mode

Maya dragged herself through seventh period feeling like actual death. Three nights of final-exam cramming will do that to you. Her best friend Jessie had already texted five times about the pool party, but Maya couldn't imagine functioning in public, let alone a swimsuit.

"You look like a zombie," Jessie whispered, passing her a note. "TAKE THE VITAMIN YOUR MOM PACKED."

Maya rolled her eyes but popped the chewable orange tablet anyway. Anything for a brain boost.

When she got home, Cooper—her family's golden retriever—bounded toward her with his usual chaotic energy. He was everything she wasn't: alive, awake, ridiculous in the best way. His water bowl was empty again.

"You're literally the only thing keeping me going," she mumbled, scratching behind his ears. Cooper licked her hand, leaving a wet stripe that somehow made her feel better.

The text came while she was filling Cooper's bowl: pool party started without her. Tyler was there. THE Tyler.

Maya stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Zombie eyes, frizzy hair, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of concealer could fix. But Cooper nudged her leg, whining like he knew she was overthinking everything.

Fine. Zombie mode or not, she'd go.

She showed up wearing her brother's oversized sweatshirt over her swimsuit, hair in a messy bun. Tyler was in the deep end, that easy smile lighting up his face. When he saw her, he waved like she wasn't a complete disaster.

"Finally! We're playing chicken fight—you and me versus Jessie and Sam."

The water hit her like cool reality, washing away the zombie fog. Cooper would've loved this. For the first time all week, Maya felt present. Not perfect, not rested, not ready—but there.

"Bring it," she said, diving in.

Later, walking Cooper under streetlights, she realized something: perfection was overrated. Sometimes you just need a dog who believes in you, a friend who won't let you hide, and the courage to jump in the water even when you feel dead inside.