Dead Summer

The baseball sailed through the suffocating heat of July, an arc of perfect white against orange sunset. Sarah chewed her cuticle, watching from the bleachers, feeling like a zombie in her own life—three years of corporate burnout leaving her hollowed out, moving through motions she no longer felt.

"You still eat them like that," a voice said beside her.

She turned. Mark. Her friend from college, before everything—before the promotion that required selling her soul, before the apartment she hated but could afford, before the stretch of days that blurred into each other like watercolors left in rain.

He held out an orange. "Segments. Not slices. You always said it tasted more real that way."

She took it. His fingers brushed hers, and the jolt of recognition almost made her cry. "I haven't seen you in—"

"Three years. Since Dave's wedding. Since you were still laughing at things."

The batter connected. The crowd roared. Sarah peeled the orange, juice stinging the small cuts on her fingers she hadn't noticed until now. "I'm fine, Mark. Just. Busy."

"You look like the walking dead, Sarah." His voice dropped. "I saw you in the financial district last week. You didn't even see me. You were looking through people."

The orange segments were imbright, shocking against her gray palm. The world had been gray so long she'd forgotten color existed.

"I'm tired," she whispered, and it came out like a confession. "I'm so fucking tired."

Mark took her hand. His palm was warm, alive. "Then stop. Come back. We miss you. The real you, not this zombie version you're living as."

The baseball game continued, but she wasn't watching. She was eating an orange, segment by careful segment, tasting something real for the first time in years, while her friend's hand anchored her to the world she'd somehow forgotten how to live in.