Zombies at Tyler's Party

I felt like a **zombie** walking into Tyler's basement, my brain half-fried from overthinking every possible social outcome. The air smelled like cheap body spray and desperation, and I immediately regretted everything.

My comfort item—a beat-up beanie I'd worn since seventh grade—was clutched in my hand instead of on my head. Because apparently, wearing a **hat** indoors was "social suicide," according to Jordan, who'd been giving me unsolicited advice since we were twelve.

"You good?" she asked, already three sips into whatever red solo cup mystery drink she'd scored.

"Peachy," I said, which came out more like a squeak. Smooth. Real smooth.

I positioned myself against the wall near the snacks table, basically going full **spy** mode. Jordan called it "being observant." I called it "terrified of actual human interaction." From my strategic vantage point, I watched the carefully choreographed social dynamics unfold—couples forming in corners, friend groups shifting like tectonic plates, that one guy who thought dancing with his shirt off was a power move.

Then IT happened.

The TV near me flickered—someone had knocked loose the **cable** connection while probably doing something stupid. My entire friend group's favorite show, the one we'd been obsessively discussing since freshman year, went black. And suddenly, every drunk seventeen-year-old in the room turned to look at me like I was supposed to fix it.

"You're good with tech stuff, right?" Tyler slurred, gesturing vaguely at the mess of wires.

I knelt down, hands shaking slightly, and somehow managed to reconnect everything while maintaining what I hoped was a convincing expression of "I do this all the time, no big deal." The TV roared back to life, and I was immediately the hero of the party.

Later, I found myself squeezed onto the couch between two seniors I'd been lowkey intimidated by for years. We ended up having this whole conversation about the giant stuffed **bear** Tyler's sister kept in the corner—like, why was it there? What was its backstory? By midnight, I'd laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Walking home, I realized I'd spent four hours being the person I actually was instead of who I thought I was supposed to be. The zombie feeling had faded. And yeah, maybe I'd keep the hat off at parties. But maybe I didn't have to be someone else to fit in.