Zombies Don't Play Padel

Maya's hair had seen better days. After three hours of sleep and a morning that started before the sun, her normally sleek dark curls were doing something that could only be described as architectural – and not in a good way. She yanked at her orange hair tie, the neon brightness mocking her existential dread.

"You look like a zombie," said Jules, her best friend since seventh grade, though lately they'd been drifting into that awkward space where 'friend' felt more like a label than a reality.

"Thanks," Maya muttered. "Your padel tournament couldn't wait until I was actually alive?"

Jules shrugged, already stretching near the court fence where the new kids from the performing arts school were gathering. With their perfect hair and effortless cool, they made Maya feel like she'd been assembled incorrectly at the factory. That's when she saw him – the guy with the orange shoes, leaning against the padel court like he owned it and all the social capital within a three-mile radius.

"That's Leo," Jules whispered, following Maya's gaze. "He's in my creative writing workshop. Writes poetry about existential dread and plays padel like it's his emotional support sport."

Maya's stomach did that thing it did when she was simultaneously exhausted and weirdly hopeful. "He looks like he doesn't sleep either."

"Zombies unite," Jules said, but her tone had shifted – something calculating beneath the casual slang.

The invitation hung in the air like a challenge. Maya's hair was still a disaster, she was running on caffeine and spite, and she'd never played padel in her life. But sometimes you had to show up to things you weren't ready for, even when you felt like the walking dead. Especially when the walking dead were the only ones who understood what it meant to be seventeen and fundamentally tired of everyone's expectations.

She adjusted her orange hair tie and grabbed a racket. "Fine. But if I embarrass myself, you're buying me an orange juice afterwards. The expensive kind."

Jules grinned, and for the first time in months, the friendship felt real again. "Deal. Now let's go before Leo thinks we're weirdly staring at him."

Too late for that, Maya thought. But weirdly staring was practically a love language at their age, and she was surprisingly okay with it.