The Last Living Thing in the Apartment

Maya came home to find her cat, Barnaby, sitting on the kitchen counter, staring at her with those judgmental yellow eyes. He knew. He always knew.

"Another day, another dollar," she muttered, dropping her bag on the floor. Barnaby blinked slowly, his tail flicking with what she swore was sarcastic disinterest.

Sarah had called her a zombie that morning. They'd been friends for seven years, since before the divorce, before the promotion that required more hours than Maya actually had in her day. "You're not even here anymore," Sarah had said over coffee, her voice tight with something that might have been concern or might have been been frustration. "You're just walking through everything like—like you're already dead. Like you're haunting your own life."

The word had stuck. Zombie. Maya had looked at her reflection in the café window and seen the truth in it: the flat eyes, the slump in her shoulders that no amount of expensive tailoring could hide, the way she nodded and smiled and agreed to things she didn't want to do because somewhere along the line, she'd forgotten how to say no.

Barnaby jumped down and wound around her legs, purring like a small engine. At least he was honest. He wanted food, or attention, or maybe just the warmth of her body. His desires were simple. His love was transactional but real.

That was more than she could say for most people.

Sarah's words had been the wake-up call, or maybe the final nail. By noon, Maya had done something she hadn't done in years: she'd said no. She'd declined the meeting. She'd left at five. She'd sat on a park bench and watched people walk by, feeling something unfamiliar but undeniable stirring in her chest—something that might have been alive.

Now, in the quiet of her apartment, with Barnaby's purr vibrating against her shins, Maya realized something terrifying and wonderful. Sarah was right. She had been a zombie. But zombies could come back to life, couldn't they? That was the whole point.

"I'm quitting," she said aloud. Barnaby stopped purring. "Tomorrow. I'm doing it tomorrow."

The cat resumed his purring, satisfied. Some decisions required validation beyond your own reflection. Some decisions needed a witness.

Maya picked him up, buried her face in his soft fur, and for the first time in years, she didn't feel dead at all.