The Dead Room

The conference room smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Six of us sat around the mahogany table, eyes glazed, minds elsewhere—corporate zombies in tailored suits, going through the motions of yet another product launch meeting.

Outside, lightning cracked against the charcoal sky, illuminating our faces in freeze-frames of exhaustion. Sarah's iPhone lay face-up on the table, its screen lighting up every thirty seconds with notifications she couldn't bring herself to answer. Her marriage was ending. We all knew it. Nobody said anything.

"The zombie angle," David was saying, pointing at the presentation board with a manicured finger. "Gen Z loves apocalypse content. It's ironic detachment meets existential dread. Very now."

I watched rain trace_paths down the window, feeling like a zombie myself—husband gone, career stalled, thirty-five and already wondering if this was it. If I'd spend the next three decades in rooms like this, pretending to care about selling products to people who didn't need them, while my own life withered unnoticed.

Another flash of lightning. Sarah's phone buzzed. Her ex-husband's name appeared on screen: "Can we talk?" She stared at it, something broken flickering across her face. The room went quiet.

"Fuck this," she said, standing up. "Fuck the zombies. Fuck the apocalypse." She grabbed her iPhone, turned it off, and walked out into the storm.

We watched her go. Nobody tried to stop her.

Lightning struck somewhere close, the thunder rattling the walls. I thought about following her. Instead I picked up my own phone, scrolled to the contacts I'd been avoiding for months—my mother, my brother, the friend who'd reached out three times this year—and sent three texts: "I'm sorry. I've been distant. Can we talk?"

The zombie costume had been comfortable. But Sarah had reminded me that the living thing, however messy, was still worth choosing.