The Night We Unghosted

I was basically a spy at my own lunch table.

Three weeks ago, my best friend Sage had started acting different — more distant, checking her phone constantly, giving me these vague answers about where she'd been. So I'd started watching. Not like, creepy watching, but like, observing. The way someone tracks a pattern they can't quite figure out.

"You coming to Maya's party?" I asked, trying to sound casual instead of like I was trying to info-gather.

Sage didn't look up from her iPhone. "Maybe. Got stuff going on."

"Stuff?" I pressed. "Like what?"

She just shrugged. That shrug that meant I'm not telling you something.

That night, I saw her post on her private story — something that disappeared after 24 hours, which felt calculated. A caption: zombie hours.

I waited until my parents were asleep, then grabbed my phone and snuck out the window. Not my finest moment, but something was off and I needed to know what. Sage lived four streets over. I walked past the gated pool where the school mascot statue — this giant concrete bear — looked extra eerie in the streetlights. Someone had spray-painted DEAD INSIDE across its chest last month, and nobody had bothered to clean it off.

Sage's house was dark except for a glow from her backyard. I crept closer, heart hammering. What if she was dealing? What if she was sneaking out with some older guy? What if it was something way worse than I could imagine?

I peeked through the fence and saw —

Sage. Alone in her backyard. Staring up at the sky with her phone extended, taking pictures of the moon.

She looked like a zombie, honestly. Pale face, dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in days.

"Sage?" I whispered.

She jumped and nearly dropped her phone. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." I climbed over the fence. "You've been acting weird. I was worried."

Sage looked at me for a long second, then sighed and sat down on the grass. Patting the spot beside her.

"My mom's in the hospital," she said quietly. "She's been there for three weeks. It's... not great."

My chest tightened. "Sage, why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I guess I didn't want it to be real. If I didn't talk about it, maybe it wouldn't be happening, you know? So I've been coming out here at night. Taking pictures of the moon. It's the only thing that feels... normal."

I sat down beside her and looked up. The moon was bright enough to cast shadows.

"You don't have to spy on me, you know," Sage said, half-smiling. "I'm literally right here."

"I wasn't spying," I lied.

"You were absolutely spying." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "But thanks. For caring enough to investigate."

We sat there for a long time. She showed me the photos on her phone — hundreds of them, night after night, the moon in different phases. Some blurred, some crystal clear. All of them beautiful.

"Tomorrow," I said, "I'm coming with you. To the hospital. I'll bring snacks. I'll bring that terrible bear hoodie you always borrow and pretend you hate."

"Deal." She leaned into me. "But only if you promise to stop acting like you're in a spy movie and just ask me what's wrong next time."

"No promises," I said. "But I'll work on it."

The concrete bear on our walk home didn't look so eerie anymore. Just a bear, painted with words that maybe weren't true for everyone.

Dead inside? Not us. Not tonight.