Zombies Don't Eat Papaya

I dragged myself through the hallway like a straight-up zombie, which was pretty much my default state after three hours of sleep and an AP History test that absolutely wrecked me. My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Maya hyping up some party I wasn't vibing with.

"Dude, you look dead," said Leo, appearing beside me at his locker like he'd materialized from the void.

"Literally me," I muttered, trying to psych myself up for lunch. The cafeteria would be packed, and I'd have to navigate the social hierarchy like I wasn't running on zero emotional capacity.

My wellness-obsessed mom had started this new routine where she'd force-feed me these massive vitamin supplements before school, claiming they'd fix my "teenage brain fog." Whatever that meant. This morning she'd also somehow convinced me to try papaya for breakfast—a suspiciously orange alien fruit that tasted like someone mixed sunshine with weirdness.

"So are you coming to Jake's tonight?" Leo asked, grabbing a seat beside me at our usual table. "Everyone's gonna be there."

I poked at my lunch, thinking about how much energy it took just to show up. Sometimes I felt like I was performing my own life, going through the motions like someNPC.

"Not sure," I said. "Might need to recharge first."

"Bro, you're always recharging. You're missing everything."

Was I? Maybe. But also, maybe I was just figuring out that I didn't have to be everywhere all the time. That I could just... exist without needing to be the main character in every single scene.

I thought about the papaya sitting in my backpack. Weirdly foreign, suspiciously bright, but kind of growing on me. Maybe that was the whole point—embracing the stuff that felt different instead of running from it.

"Actually," I said, "text me the address."

Leo's face lit up. "Finally! The zombie rises!"

I laughed, and for the first time all day, I didn't feel like I was faking it.