Zombie Mode and Midnight Runs

I was straight-up zombie mode—eyes glazed, brain fried, existing on nothing but iced coffee and existential dread. Finals week at Northwood High hits different when you've got three AP tests, a track meet, and your best friend suddenly ghosting you.

"You good, Maya?" Lena asked, sliding onto the bench next to me. She'd been my friend since seventh grade, back when we both thought Aeropostale was peak fashion.

"I'm functioning," I said, which was honestly generous. "Barely."

That's when I saw him—Jason Chen, scrolling through TikTok like he wasn't literally the fastest runner in our division. He'd been avoiding me since our friends-with-benefits situation crashed and burned spectacularly at homecoming. Now every time we made eye contact, I felt that cringe attack hit like a physical force.

Coach whistle-cut through my spiral. "Maya, you're up!"

Running was the only thing that made sense anymore. The moment my feet hit the track, everything else faded—the academic pressure, the friendship tension, the fact that my parents were probably divorcing. Just me, the pavement, and the rhythm of my own breathing.

I was halfway through my third lap when something caught my eye. A dog—this scraggly, definitely-not-a-stray golden retriever—had somehow gotten onto the field. It was chasing butterflies like its life depended on it, completely unbothered by the chaos of practice.

I stopped running. Something about this dog's chaotic energy resonated with my soul right now.

"That's Buster," Jason said, suddenly beside me. "My neighbor's dog. He's an escape artist."

Of course he'd know the dog's backstory. That was Jason—observant, thoughtful, the guy who'd held me while I cried after my grandma's funeral, now reduced to awkward small talk about canines.

"He's living his best life," I said, watching Buster attempt to eat a dandelion.

Jason laughed, and just like that, months of tension cracked open. "Better than zombie mode, right?"

I looked at him—really looked at him. "You noticed?"

"Maya, I've known you since kindergarten. I know what your I'm-fine-but-actually-dying face looks like."

Buster chose that moment to sprint toward us, tackling Jason with unbridled enthusiasm. We both cracked up, and for the first time in months, things felt simple again. Maybe friendship—and whatever else we were—didn't need to be so complicated.

"Want to walk him back?" Jason asked, already reaching for Buster's collar.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I do."