Digital Zombie

The fluorescent lights of the hallway felt like they were draining my soul. Finals week had turned me into a certified zombie—three cups of coffee deep, eyes burning, sliding through life like I was haunting my own body.

Then I saw it.

Maya was leaning against her locker, laughing with her perfect hair flowing, posting something on her iPhone. But that wasn't the weird part. The weird part was that just yesterday, she'd told me her phone was "dead" and she "couldn't text back."

Classic bull.

I ducked behind the water fountain, heart suddenly racing. Was she ghosting me? Had I done something wrong? My mind spiraled through every conversation we'd had, every awkward joke, every too-long pause.

"Yo, Jake!"

I jumped. Marcus stood there, looking concerned. "You good, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lied, but my eyes kept drifting back toward Maya's locker.

Marcus followed my gaze. "Ohhh. I see what's happening."

"What?"

"You're totally spying on her." He smirked. "Jake's got a crush and now he's gone full detective mode."

"I am NOT—" I stopped. Because maybe I was. Maybe that's what being a zombie meant—moving through life half-alive until something finally made you feel something again.

That night, I lay in bed staring at my phone, thumb hovering over her profile. What was I expecting? Some clue? Some explanation?

Instead, I found myself back on her feed, watching stories she'd posted when she was supposedly "too busy" to hang out. There she was, living her best life while I was stuck in overthinking mode.

The notification pinged: Maya: "Hey! Want to come to the park tomorrow?"

I stared at it. Was this real? Was she just bored? Was I being played?

Then another message: "Sorry I've been distant. My grandma's in the hospital and I've been spending all my time there."

My stomach dropped. All that spying, all those assumptions, and I'd been the one making everything about me. I wasn't a zombie anymore—I was just human, beautifully and terribly wrong about everything.

"I'll be there," I typed back. "And I'm sorry about your grandma."

Sometimes the worst ghosts are the ones we create in our own heads.