Zombie State of Mind

The neon lights of Maya's basement party throbbed against my skull as I leaned against the papaya-colored wall, trying to look like I belonged. My first high school party, and I was already oscillating between that deer-in-headlines vibe and straight-up zombie mode. Three hours of sleep'll do that to you.

"Yo, Marcus! You good or what?" Jordan called from across the room, loud enough to cut through the bass. He was vibing with some seniors near the makeshift dance floor, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who'd spent the last week begging me to wingman him.

"All good!" I lied, flashing a weak thumbs-up. Classic.

Then I saw her. Lena. Standing by the snack table with this orange Fanta like it was the most interesting thing in existence. We'd shared exactly three sentences in AP Bio, but in my head, we'd already had this whole imaginary relationship where we bonded over cellular respiration and my questionable taste in music.

Before I could overthink it into oblivion, Tyler—this massive football player who'd been giving me crap since middle school—shouldered past me like a human bulldozer. "Watch it, little man."

Something in my brain just snapped. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking. Maybe it was the way Lena's eyes flicked over at the commotion.

"Bro," I said, stepping in front of him. "You literally just walked into me. The audacity is real."

Tyler paused, genuinely confused. Like, he was so used to people just moving that the concept of someone calling him on it had short-circuited his whole deal. "Whatever, man." He actually stepped around me.

I stood there, heart hammering, feeling less zombie and more... actually alive? Lena caught my eye from across the room and smiled, just a little. That tiny, knowing smile that said she saw what happened.

"Nice one," Jordan materialized beside me, looking impressed. "Didn't know you had that in you."

"Me either," I admitted, finally letting myself breathe.

The papaya wall still looked hideous, the music was still too loud, and I was still running on fumes. But as I made my way toward Lena and her orange soda, I realized something: sometimes the scariest part of any party isn't showing up—it's deciding you're done playing dead.