The Dead Don't Text Back

Marcus sat at the edge of the apartment complex pool, legs submerged in water that refused to warm up even at noon. His iPhone vibrated against the concrete—third time in ten minutes. He didn't pick it up.

"You look like a zombie," Elena said, dropping onto the lounge chair beside him. They'd been friends for seven years, since she'd caught him crying in the office supply closet after his divorce was finalized. "Seriously. You haven't slept. You're not eating. And you're still checking that phone like she's going to magically become a different person."

"She says she's leaving him."

"She's been saying that for two years, Marcus." Elena's voice softened, but the pity in it was worse than her anger. "You're the other woman now. That's the role. That's the whole job description."

The pool surface shimmered with sunlight, sending fractured reflections across his face. A child screamed somewhere nearby. A perfect Sunday afternoon in LA, and he felt hollowed out, walking through someone else's life.

"We were supposed to meet today," Marcus said. "She canceled again. Her husband's suspicious."

"And tomorrow she'll cancel because her mother's in town, and Wednesday because work is crazy, and Thursday because—"

"Because she's married, Elena. I KNOW she's married."

"Then why are you sitting here like she died? She's not dead. She's just not yours. There's a difference." She sat up, eyes searching his face. "You know what zombies are, right? They're not the living dead. They're the dead that won't accept they're dead. That's you. That's this whole situation—rotting from the inside out, still walking around like it has a pulse."

His iPhone vibrated again. This time he looked. Not her. A calendar notification: their anniversary. Three years next week.

Marcus stood up, water dripping from his calves, and threw the phone into the pool. It sank slowly, a dark rectangle surrendering to the deep end.

"Finally," Elena said. "Something that's actually over."