The Screen Between Us

The notification appeared at 2:47 AM, washing Marcus's face in ghost-pale blue. Sarah's name. His best friend, the one who'd gone silent three months ago when the layoffs hollowed out their department and left her the last one standing, zombie-walking through meetings and empty hallways.

He'd thought about reaching out. He'd typed messages, watched the cursor blink like a heartbeat, then deleted them. What do you say to someone becoming someone else?

Outside, lightning fractured the sky—a storm moving in from the coast, the kind that rattled windows and made you feel small. Marcus grabbed his phone and stepped onto the balcony, needing air, needing something real.

And there it was: a fox, orange fire against the monochrome apartment complex, standing motionless on the grass below. It looked up at him, eyes catching the streetlamp's amber glow, wild and unbothered and so completely alive.

The fox had survived. Sarah was surviving too, in her way.

His thumb hovered over Sarah's name. The iPhone felt heavy in his hand, a weapon and a lifeline and everything that had grown between them.

Then: another lightning flash, closer now. The fox vanished into shadows like it had never existed. Some things don't wait for you to find the right moment.

Marcus typed five words. I haven't forgotten you exist.

His phone buzzed before he could set it down. I was hoping you'd say that.

They weren't okay—that would take time, maybe more than either had left. But watching the storm break open the sky, Marcus realized something: we're all a little undead until someone remembers to see us.

The fox was gone. The friend was still there. And the screen between them had finally, finally cracked.