Zombie Mode at the Bonfire

My hair had decided to stage a full rebellion against humidity, frizzing out in eight different directions despite the three products I'd attacked it with earlier.

I stood by the edge of the bonfire, watching everyone else living their best lives while I operated on pure zombie mode—half-present, mentally checking out, scrolling through my phone like my life depended on it even though I'd already checked every app twice.

Maya was there, of course. Because the universe loves to torture me. She was actually talking to people, laughing, being the kind of human who naturally exists without overthinking everything. Her palm tree tattoo peeked out from under her tank top strap, something I'd noticed approximately four hundred times but never actually mentioned.

Your phone's about to die, my brain helpfully announced. I'd forgotten my charging cable at home because I'm a genius.

The Pacific Ocean crashed behind us, water reflecting the bonfire light in ways that would've been romantic if I wasn't busy having an existential crisis about social interaction.

Then Maya caught my eye. Actually smiled. Started walking over.

My heart did that stupid thing where it forgot how to hearts properly. She was wearing that ripped denim jacket she always wore, hair that perfect messy texture I could never achieve even with tutorials, and she was heading straight for me.

"Hey," she said. "You look like you're plotting someone's demise."

"Just really tired," I managed. "And my hair's trying to kill me."

She laughed. "It looks fine. Better than fine." She paused. "I've been wanting to talk to you all night."

Something shifted in my chest. Maybe I wasn't completely dead inside after all.

"Same," I said, and for the first time all night, I actually put my phone in my pocket.