Zombie Mode at Fox's Pool Party

The June heat hit me like a physical weight as I stood at the gate, heart doing backflips. This was Fox's pool party—the social event of the summer—and somehow, awkward, invisible me had actually been invited.

I walked in feeling like a straight-up zombie, running on zero sleep and maximum anxiety. Three hours of overanalyzing my outfit (was the bikini too much? too basic?) will do that to you.

Fox himself lounged by the pool, looking effortless in board shorts and that effortless smile that made everyone's stomach do that little flip thing. His real name was Marcus, but nobody called him that anymore—not since freshman year when he'd talked his way out of detention with such smooth charm that the teacher had actually apologized.

"Hey, you made it!" Fox called, waving me over. "Grab some food, don't be shy."

The pool was already chaos—people doing cannonballs, someone's phone definitely about to die a watery death, music blasting. I eased myself into the shallow end, letting the cool water wash away some of the tension. This wasn't so bad. Maybe I could actually survive this.

Then Fox's older brother Jake—aka The Bear, because the man was built like a grizzly and had zero patience—came storming out of the house.

"FOX!" Bear's voice cut through everything. "Who left the front gate OPEN? The dog's gone again!"

The mood shifted instantly. Everyone froze. Fox scrambled out of the pool, grabbing his towel. "I'll go find him, it's fine—"

"You're NOT going anywhere in that state," Bear snapped. "You've been drinking."

Fox rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

Without thinking, I found myself standing up. "I'll go. I haven't had anything. I know the neighborhood."

Fox looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time all day. "You'd do that?"

"Yeah," I said, like it was no big deal. Like my heart wasn't basically pounding out of my chest.

I walked the streets alone for twenty minutes before I found the dog—Bear's actual German Shepherd, named ironically enough—chasing a real live fox through someone's backyard. Both froze when they saw me.

The fox was sleek, beautiful, wild. It locked eyes with me for one perfect moment before vanishing into the bushes. I collared the dog and started back.

When I returned, Fox was waiting by the gate. Everyone else had left or was inside. It was just us, the water still reflecting twilight, the crickets starting up.

"You're actually kind of amazing," he said, like he was discovering this for the first time.

"I just found a dog," I said, suddenly shy again.

"No," Fox said. "You didn't freeze. You just... did something." He stepped closer. "Can I text you later? Not about the dog. Just. To talk."

My zombie-mode brain short-circuited. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

I walked home that night feeling something shift in my chest—that tiny, terrifying moment when you realize maybe you're not as invisible as you thought, and the world might actually be ready to see you.