Zombie Mode at Padel

I haven't slept properly in three days. Finals week will do that to you. My usually curly **hair** hung in a frizzy mess around my face, refusing to cooperate no matter how many times I ran my fingers through it. Looking in the mirror before heading to the padel club, I barely recognized myself – dark circles under my eyes, skin breaking out, the whole disaster package.

"You look like a **zombie**," my little sister chirped as I grabbed my racquet bag.

"Thanks, Maya. Really helpful."

She shrugged, already back on her phone. "Just saying. You're literally in **zombie** mode."

She wasn't wrong. Between AP Chem, the history essay I'd procrastinated into oblivion, and my mom's insistence that I needed 'more extracurriculars for college applications,' I was running on caffeine and anxiety. Which is how I ended up at the **padel** courts at 9 AM on a Saturday when I could've been sleeping.

"Alex! You made it!" Jake waved from Court 3. His **hair** was perfectly messy-cute, the kind that takes zero effort but somehow looks amazing. Jake, who'd been my lab partner since freshman year, who I'd been lowkey crushing on for approximately forever, and who was now dating Chloe – the girl whose **hair** always fell in effortless beach waves even though we lived three hours from the ocean.

Life was unfair.

"Ready to get crushed?" Jake grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"In your dreams." I dropped my bag and stepped onto the court.

At least **padel** didn't require much brain power. Hit the ball against the glass walls, keep it in play, don't trip over your own feet. Simple. Or it used to be simple, back when I wasn't exhausted and overthinking every interaction with Jake.

Chloe showed up five minutes late, instagram story already documenting her "morning workout." Her **hair** was in a high ponytail, not a strand out of place.

"Sorry! Traffic was insane," she said, kissing Jake on the cheek. "Ready to destroy them?"

Jake wrapped his arm around her waist. "Born ready."

I looked away.

The game was brutal. Jake and Chloe moved in perfect synchronization, calling shots without speaking, finishing each other's points like they'd been playing together for years. Meanwhile, my partner was some guy from school who kept apologizing every time he missed.

"Sorry," he said, for the fifteenth time.

"It's fine," I said, even though it wasn't.

I swung my racquet at a ball coming straight at me and completely whiffed. The ball hit me square in the forehead.

Everything went quiet.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Jake rushed over, Chloe right behind him.

I sat up, blinking away stars. "I'm fine. I'm—" I laughed, suddenly, helplessly. "I'm such a **zombie** right now."

Jake looked at me, really looked at me, for what felt like the first time all morning. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Thursday?"

He exchanged a look with Chloe. "Hey, we're skipping the rest of the game. You're coming with us."

"What? No, I can't—"

"We're getting breakfast," Chloe said firmly. "And you're going to sleep for like, twelve hours. Non-negotiable."

Jake held out his hand to pull me up. "Consider it a strategic retreat from the **zombie** apocalypse."

I took it.

Later, as we sat in a booth at the diner, Jake and Chloe bickering affectionately over pancakes while I inhaled the best breakfast of my life, I realized something: **hair** frizz, exhaustion, crushes on unavailable boys – it was all just stuff. Temporary stuff. The things that mattered were the friends who showed up when you were barely holding it together, who dragged you out of **zombie** mode and into the light.

Even if that light involved hours at the **padel** courts first.