The Unliving

Marisa hadn't felt real since the merger. Eighteen months of presentations she couldn't remember giving, emails that wrote themselves, conversations where her mouth moved while something else watched from behind her eyes. She'd become what her team jokingly called a corporate zombie—functional, relentless, hollow in that particular way that impressed middle management.

Her apartment was the only place where the numbness lifted, mostly because Luna and Barnaby demanded it. Luna, her cat of twelve years, would hop onto the desk during video calls, her tail deliberately obscuring shared screens. Barnaby, an elderly golden retriever mix rescued after his previous owner's passing, would rest his chin on Marisa's knee when she worked past midnight, staring with that heartbreaking judgment only dogs could summon.

They anchored her. In a life of metrics and deliverables, their needs were uncomplicated. Luna required fresh water at dawn; Barnaby needed slow walks around the block where he sniffed each lamppost like it held breaking news. These small obligations kept her human.

Then came the email from Elena. Best friend since college, estranged for two years since Marisa canceled Elena's wedding weekend to fly to Chicago for a Q3 forecast that never actually happened. Elena was getting divorced. Could she come over?

Marisa agreed, terrified. When Elena arrived, she looked nothing like the woman in carefully curated Instagram posts. She'd lost weight, her expensive clothes hung loosely, and she spoke with a rawness that made Marisa ache.

"I feel like I've been living someone else's life," Elena said, drinking wine on Marisa's couch while Luna curled beside her and Barnaby rested his head on her feet. "Like I was sleepwalking through my own marriage, my career. Then last month, I woke up."

"To what?" Marisa asked.

"To realizing I'd become a zombie too."

The word hit Marisa like physical impact. They spent hours then—talking honestly for the first time in years, about the compromises they'd made, the versions of themselves they'd abandoned, the hollow victories they'd chased.

Around 3 AM, Elena squeezed Marisa's hand. "I'm glad you're still in here somewhere."

Marisa felt something crack open inside her chest, something that had been sealed shut for a very long time. Luna purred against Elena's side. Barnaby sighed, deep and content, in his sleep.

"Yeah," Marisa said. "Me too."

For the first time in eighteen months, she didn't feel dead at all.