The Zombie on the 40th Floor

Maya pressed her sweating palms against her slacks, the polyester blend clinging to damp skin. The conference room on the 40th floor had floor-to-ceiling windows, but she couldn't see the palm trees swaying in the Santa Monica breeze below. All she could see was the quarterly projection chart, the red line declining like her will to live.

"You've been going through the motions," Richard said, not unkindly. "Like a zombie without an appetite."

The word hit harder than he intended. Three years ago, she'd been climbing—literally. Weekend trips to Palm Springs, playing padel with Marcus on sun-drenched courts, their competitive streaks feeding into everything else. The way they'd laugh over post-match margaritas, sweat still cooling on their skin. The way he'd grab her hand across the table, his palm rough against hers, promising they'd build something real.

Then came the restructure. The cross-country move. The breakup email that read like a performance review.

Now her condo was filled with things Marcus had picked out—the Moroccan rug, the minimalist lamps. And Barnaby, his cat, who still waited by the door at 6 PM like clockwork. The cat had more loyalty than the marriage.

"Maya?" Richard's voice cut through. "We're offering you the VP track. But we need you present."

She looked at her hands. Her wedding ring was gone, but the tan line remained—pale evidence of something that used to fit.

"I'm here," she said. And something shifted. The zombie stopped walking.

That night, she texted Marcus: "Barnaby says hello. Also, I got the promotion."

His reply came at 7 AM: "Padel this weekend?"

She didn't answer. But for the first time in months, Maya thought she might.