Dead Ringers

Emma stared at the orange plastic bottle in her palm. Another day, another vitamin D supplement prescribed to cure the ache in her bones that had nothing to do with deficiency. The real deficiency was in her marriage, in her life, in the hollowed-out space where passion used to live.

In the bedroom, Marcus was already up, pacing and muttering about his presentation. His startup—that absurd venture capital-bait scheme he'd been chasing for three years—needed another infusion of cash. Another round of bull to pitch to investors who knew less about technology than he did about honesty.

"You look like hell," he said, not looking at her. "Your zombie act isn't convincing anyone anymore."

Emma swallowed the vitamin dry. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was the one sleepwalking through existence, showing up to her corporate law job each day to defend companies that destroyed lives, while Marcus chased dreams that had evaporated somewhere between year one and year two. They were both dead inside, just walking it off differently.

"The meeting's today," Marcus continued, finally meeting her eyes in the mirror. "If I don't close this round, we lose the apartment."

"We lost the apartment three months ago," she said quietly. "We just haven't told each other yet."

The words hung between them, heavier than the accumulated debt, heavier than the years of quiet disappointment. Marcus's face crumbled. For the first time in forever, the corporate polish fell away, leaving something raw underneath.

"I'm tired, Em," he whispered. "I'm so fucking tired of being this person."

Emma stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her chin on his shoulder. They stood there, two zombies finally admitting they were dead, finally ready to find out what came after.

"Cancel the meeting," she said. "Let's figure out what we actually need. Not the vitamins, not the bull. The real thing."

Marcus turned in her arms. For a moment, something alive flickered between them. Not enough, not yet. But something.