Zombies Don't Play Padel

Maya stared at her iPhone, thumb scrolling through posts of people living lives she'd never have. 2:47 AM. Again. She'd been a zombie all week—trudging through AP Bio, nodding at lunch table drama, eyes glazing over while her friends dissected some Snapchat "situation" that wasn't actually a situation.

"You coming?" Chloe called from the doorway. Maya's best friend since kindergarten, now fully assimilated into the Country Club Hive Mind. "Your mom paid for the private padel lesson. Again."

Maya groaned. Padel—that tennis-squash hybrid that screamed "I have money and leisure time." She dragged herself off the bed, the orange hoodie she'd worn for three days straight hanging off her frame like she'd shrunk two sizes since the zombie apocalypse of junior year began.

The club courts blazed under sunset so violently orange it looked like the world was ending. Which, honestly? Fine by Maya. Anything was better than this endless cycle of performative happiness.

Her instructor, some college guy named Diego who definitely didn't want to be there either, bounced a ball off the backboard. "Your form's getting better, Maya."

"My form's trash," she muttered, swinging at nothing. "Everything's trash."

He laughed. straight white teeth, annoyingly perfect. "You always this dramatic?"

Maya's phone buzzed in her pocket. Another group chat. Another emergency that wasn't an emergency. Another invitation to perform the role of Maya, Supportive Friend, while her brain felt like it was dissolving.

"You know what?" she said, dropping the racquet. It clattered against the court floor. Diego raised an eyebrow. "I'm done."

"Done with padel?"

"Done with the BULL.ETO." She actually shouted it. "Done acting like I care about who posted what story. Done with everyone acting like this—" she gestured vaguely at everything "—is normal. We're all zombies. My phone's controlling my life and I'm letting it happen and I'm SO over it."

Diego just stood there. Orange light washed over them both.

Then her phone buzzed again. And again. The little screen lit up with incoming texts, demanding reactions.

She pulled it from her pocket. Diego watched, waiting.

Maya flipped it into the sand beyond the court.

"Whoa," he said.

"Yeah," she said, breath catching. "Whoa."