Dead Girls Don't Text

Emma stood at the starting line of the charity zombie run, feeling ridiculous in her torn clothes and fake blood makeup. Her mom had signed her up, claiming it would be "good for her" — same way she left those disgusting vitamin C gummies on the kitchen counter every morning, insisting Emma's immune system needed boosting.

Emma's hand kept reaching for her iPhone, muscle twitching from phantom notification syndrome. Three unread texts from Maya, her former best friend who'd blown her off for the popular crowd last week. The same Maya who was now running toward her in zombie makeup, laughing with those girls.

The horn blasted. Zombies shambled forward. Emma started running, but not away from them — toward them. Let Maya laugh. Let her act like Emma didn't exist. Emma was done running from the awkwardness, the lunchroom tables where she used to sit alone, the whispered conversations that stopped when she walked by.

After the race, she drove to the community pool. Night swimming, her refuge since the friendship fallout. The water was cold and perfect. She dove deep, iPhone tucked in her locker, and stayed underwater until her lungs burned. Down here, no one could ghost you. No one could leave you on read.

She surfaced, gasping. The lifeguard waved from the chair. Emma waved back, treading water in the gentle blue.

The vitamin gummies, the zombie run, the iPhone withdrawals — none of it mattered. What mattered was this: she was still swimming. Still moving forward. And tomorrow, she'd walk into school, head up, zombie makeup washed away, and sit at whatever table she wanted.

Because dead girls don't care who they scare.