Zombie State of Mind

The first day of summer swim practice felt like walking into a parallel universe where I was the only one who didn't get the memo. Everyone else glided through the water like graceful merpeople while I basically flailed like a dying fish. Coach Martinez yelled something about form, but I was too busy hyperventilating to care.

"You good, Maya?" Lena asked afterward, her hair somehow still perfect after two hours of chlorinated torture.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just living that zombie life. You know how it is."

She laughed. "Finals week killed me too. My mom caught me watching Walking Dead reruns at 3 AM instead of studying. Had to negotiate serious cable TV restrictions."

We sat on the pool deck eating the weird snacks my health-obsessed mom packed. Fresh papaya slices that looked like alien orange brains.

"What IS this?" Lena poked at it suspiciously.

"Papaya. Apparently it's got magical enzymes or something. Just eat it before someone sees us and thinks we're health freaks."

She tried it, made a face, then ate another slice. "Okay, not terrible. Still not as good as actual food."

That's when I noticed Oliver across the pool area, sitting alone and scrolling through his phone like he'd been cast in a completely different movie. The guy literally never spoke to anyone since he transferred last month.

"Don't," Lena warned, reading my mind. "I heard he bit some kid at his old school. Like, actually bit him. There's a reason nobody talks to him."

"Rumors are literally 90% fake," I said, standing up before I could overthink it. "Be right back."

Oliver looked up as I approached, actually startled. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted.

"Hey," I said. "You good? You look... zombie mode extreme."

He almost smiled. "Just been up all night. Our cat escaped and I spent seven hours searching the neighborhood. Found him at 4 AM in someone's garage."

"Your cat? That's like, valid trauma. Cats are family."

We talked for twenty minutes about his cat (Mango—ironic given the papaya in my bag), about how much pool practice sucked, about nothing and everything. He wasn't weird or scary—he was just a guy who loved his cat and hated morning practice as much as I did.

When practice ended, Lena raised her eyebrows at me. "So? Is he actually a zombie bite risk?"

"No," I said. "Just someone who really loves his cat."

The papaya slices were still sitting on the pool deck, warming in the sun. I ate one. It tasted like summer and second chances and maybe, just maybe, not being invisible anymore.