Better Days, would they last?

Marcus's question hung in the air like a bad smell. Dylan stared at him, his mouth dry, his brain scrambling for an exit strategy. *You don't remember, do you?* The words felt like a trapdoor opening beneath him.

"Duh," Dylan said, forcing a laugh so fake it could've been sold at a dollar store. "Of course I remember. I just… don't wanna talk about it."

Marcus squinted, his "I'm-calling-BS" face fully activated. "You *literally* just said—"

"And *you*," Dylan interrupted, jabbing a finger at Marcus's chest, "left skid marks on the gym floor during the fire drill last year. Should we talk about *that* instead?"

Marcus gasped, clutching imaginary pearls. "Low blow! That was a *sock malfunction*!"

"You said your feet were 'breathing.'"

"They were! They were breathing!"

The tension shattered like glass. Marcus launched into a dramatic reenactment of the Great Sock Incident of last year, complete with jazz hands and sound effects, and just like that, the conversation veered into safer, stupider waters. Dylan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

*Crisis (temporarily) avoided.*

First period was a blur of fluorescent lights and half-hearted syllabus reviews. Dylan's mind kept drifting back to the gaps in his memory*How did I get home? Why can't I remember?*but Marcus's relentless chaos acted like a mental bulldozer.

"Dude," Marcus whispered during Biology, kicking Dylan's chair. "Look at Fletcher's tie. It's got ducks on it."

Dylan glanced at their bio teacher, who was droning on about lab safety. Sure enough, Mr. Fletcher's tie was covered in cartoon ducks wearing lab goggles. "So?"

"So? So?* It's a cry for help. The man's screaming into the void, Dylan. We need to stage an intervention."

"Or maybe he just likes ducks."

Marcus gasped. "Blasphemy."

By third period, even the teachers seemed to give up. The class devolved into a chaotic free-for-all as students fought through the timetable gauntlet in the gym a sweaty, paper-flooded warzone where Mrs. Kendrick, the guidance counselor, shouted course codes like a auctioneer on Red Bull.

"English ! Biology! *ART-ELECTIVE!*"

Marcus elbowed his way to the front, emerging victorious with two crumpled schedules. "Boom! Bio together fourth period. Prepare for 'glory'."

Dylan squinted at his timetable. "Glory? Fletcher's syllabus says we're labeling plant cells."

"Same diff. Science rules."

Lunch was a masterpiece of teenage survivalism. Marcus had somehow smuggled in a family-sized bag of Spicy Tornados, which he immediately regretted when his face turned the color of a stop sign.

"*Water!*" he wheezed, fanning his tongue. "I need*aghhh**why is it lava?!*"

"You literally picked the spiciest thing on Earth," Dylan said, tossing him a lukewarm water bottle from his bag.

"I thought 'Tornado' was a 'vibe', not a threat!"

Across the cafeteria, Beatrice, normally called Bea 'by her friends' captain of the debate team and Marcus's eternal crush glanced over, her nose wrinkling at the spectacle. Marcus froze mid-choke, his eyes wide.

"She's looking. *She's looking.* Quick, how do I look?"

"Like you deep-throated a campfire."

"Perfect." Marcus slicked back his hair and shot Lydia a thumbs-up. She turned away, snorting and shaking her head like the sight of Marcus made her loose appetite. Yes it does, she was leaving the Cafeteria for good with her clique of hot girls.

"Nailed it," Marcus said, collapsing back into his seat. Dylan smiled wryly why sipping his soda because he knew better.

The afternoon was a parade of "new and improved" school facilities that looked suspiciously like the old ones with a fresh coat of paint. The "state-of-the-art" computer lab that had three keyboards missing the spacebar. The "Zen garden" that was a sandbox with a stolen "Wet Floor" sign stuck in it. The vending machine by the gym, oooh that one gave the students a special nauseating feeling. That was a *legend* all replaced with knew ones.

Marcus couldn't believe, he thought it was rumours from those hype men and women who couldn't keep their mouth short at the sight of a little development. Anyways he was still looking for laughable stuff everywhere and of course he got them, he was Gen Z anything could be funny.

"Behold," Marcus said, pressing his face against the glass. "The holy grail of junk food. They've got *Sour Scorpion Bites.*"

"That's not food. That's a war crime."

"Live a little, Dylan."

They pooled their crumpled dollar bills, and Marcus immediately regretted his life choices when the first bite turned his face into a tomato emoji.

"*Why?!*" he rasped, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Natural selection," Dylan said, snapping a pic for blackmail.

By last period, even Marcus's bottomless energy was running dry. They slumped against their lockers, trading horror stories from their classes.

"Ms. Carter's algebra lecture was a war crime," Marcus said, miming a noose. "She said 'quadratic equations' like they keyed her car."

"Try Mr. Greeley's history class," Dylan said. "He spent 20 minutes ranting about how *'Gen Z ruined the Boston Tea Party.'*"

"The *what* of *what?*"

"Exactly."

The final bell rang, drowning the halls in a tsunami of backpack zippers and squeaky sneakers. Marcus hip-checked Dylan, grinning. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Dylan said, rolling his eyes.

They fist-bumped a convoluted three-step handshake involving jazz hands and a mic drop which never failed to leave Dylan breathless, ge didn't know why they had to a crazy handshake like that, if not for Marcus' sermon, he surely wouldn't do it but he couldn't stand another minute of Marcus nor his sermons.

Dylan walked home slowly, kicking pebbles and replaying the day. The laughter, the dumb jokes, the way the sunlight had hit the cafeteria windows at lunch, turning Marcus's neon sneakers into glowing traffic cones. For a few hours, he'd almost forgotten about NovaGen, the missing memories, the woman's ice-pick stare.

His phone buzzed. A text from Marcus:

**"P.S. If you *are* a lab experiment, I call dibs on your laser eyes."**

Dylan snorted, texting back:

**"You couldn't handle my laser eyes."**

The reply was instant:

**"FACTS. But I'd die happy."**

Dylan smiled, tucking his phone away. The sunset painted the sky in oranges and pinks, the air crisp with the promise of autumn. For the first time today, things felt… normal. Simple.

*No vents. No guards. No gaps.*

Just burgers, bad jokes, and believing for a few hours that the world could stay exactly like this.

Dylan wished his day could stay like that.