The Undead Sunday

Maya stood at the kitchen counter, forcing herself to chew another mouthful of raw spinach. It tasted like obligation, like everything else in her life lately. Across the island, Leo scrolled through his phone, the blue light washing out his face. They were supposed to be at the padel courts by now. Their Sunday morning ritual. Three years of Sunday mornings, and somehow they'd arrived at this: a relationship that moved through its motions like a zombie—undead, hollowed out, and somehow impossible to kill completely.

"Barnaby's hungry," Leo said without looking up.

The orange cat wound through Maya's legs, his coat glowing like embers against the cold tile. She knelt, burying her face in his fur. He purred, a vibration like an engine starting. At least someone still needed her.

"I don't want to play today," she said.

Leo finally looked up. "What?"

"Padel. I don't want to go."

"We have the tournament. Your sister's flying in."

"My sister who told you I'm 'too much'? Who said I should relax about the promotion?"

"That was drunk talk, Maya."

"And you never defended me. You never do."

Leo's phone chimed. He glanced at it, then away.

"Who is that?"

"Work."

"At 7 AM on a Sunday?"

He didn't answer. The spinach sat heavy in her stomach, a stone she'd swallowed whole.

"I'm done," she said. "Being the zombie in this relationship. Going through the motions while you're somewhere else."

"Maya—"

"No. I'm done."

She stood up, grabbed her keys, and walked out the door with Barnaby in her arms. The morning air tasted like possibility. Behind her, the house stayed silent, its undead routine finally broken.