The Corporate Undead

You first notice the dead look in Marcus's eyes during the Monday morning stand-up meeting. His dark hair is uncharacteristically disheveled, and there's a tremor in his hand as he clutches his coffee cup like a lifeline.

"Everything okay?" you ask afterward, catching him in the breakroom.

He laughs, but it's hollow, scraped thin. "I'm fine. Just tired. This project is eating me alive."

You've been friends since orientation three years ago, back when you both had ideals and energy and believed you could change the industry from within. Now you just want to survive until Friday.

"The pool?" you suggest, naming the dive bar around the corner where you both drown your professional disappointments in overpriced drinks.

Marcus shakes his head. "Can't tonight. Sarah needs me to help with the kids again. She's working late."

Sarah's been traveling for months now, or at least that's what he says. You've begun to suspect something else entirely, but you haven't pressed.

You watch him walk away, shoulders slumped under the weight of whatever he's not saying. Later that evening, you're sitting alone at the bar, nursing your second gin and tonic, when your phone lights up with a message from him. A photo of his apartment—empty, clean, sterile.

"She moved out two months ago," the text reads. "I've been pretending she's just traveling because I couldn't say it out loud."

You stare at the screen, understanding suddenly why he's been moving through his days like one of the undead—arms outstretched, grasping at routine, eyes fixed on nothing at all.

"I'm coming over," you type back.

Because sometimes being a friend means showing up when the pretending has to end, even if it means facing the things we've all been running from.