Zombie Mode: OFF

The kitchen was packed. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I leaned against the counter, trying to look like I belonged. Jackson Miller's parties were legendary, and I was finally invited. Junior year, baby.

"Yo Maya, you want some?" Jackson's voice cut through the bass-heavy music. He shoved a plate toward me. "My mom's obsessed with healthy stuff. It's got papaya."

Papaya. At a high school party. The absurdity almost made me laugh. "Thanks, Jackson. I'm good."

"You okay? You look like a zombie or something."

Zombie mode activated. That's what I called it—the way I could float through school, say the right things, smile at the right times, while inside I was screaming. Some days I didn't know who was actually steering the ship.

"Just tired," I said. "Cross country practice this morning."

"Oh snap, you're still running?" His friend Derrick appeared out of nowhere, shirt already spotted with mysterious party stains. "Bro, bear mode is where it's at. I'm trying to hit the gym, get swole for senior year."

Bear mode. I held back a snort. Derrick couldn't do a single push-up last month in PE.

"Running's fine," I said, my voice sounding weirdly distant. "I like it."

"Weird flex, but okay." Derrick drifted away toward a group of cheerleaders.

My chest tightened. The kitchen felt suddenly suffocating. All these people, all these expectations—be cool, be pretty, be interested in the right things. I grabbed a red plastic cup from the counter and filled it with water from the fridge dispenser, letting the cold condensation slick against my palm.

Water. My one honest thing. I drank it like it was truth serum.

Outside on the patio, the air hit my face. I leaned against the railing, closing my eyes. Running had always been my escape—the rhythm, the solitude, the way everything made sense when your feet hit the pavement. Step, breathe, repeat. Simple. Honest.

"Hey."

I jumped. A girl from my English class stood there—Grace, I thought. She held a water bottle too.

"Too loud inside?" she asked.

"Always," I said.

"Same." She tilted her head. "You're on the cross country team, right? I see you running past my house sometimes."

"Yeah."

"You look like you're actually going somewhere when you run," she said softly. "Not just running away from stuff."

The words hit me harder than they should have. "Maybe both."

She smiled, and it was real—not the practiced fake smile I'd been wearing all night. "Well. At least we're hydrated."

My zombie flickered. Something else turned on inside me, something brighter and scarier and way more alive.

"Yeah," I said, and for the first time all night, I actually meant it. "At least there's that."