The Zombie Who Walked Home

I was basically a zombie by seventh period. Two hours of sleep, three Red Bulls, and a calculus test I definitely tanked will do that to you. My brain felt like it was buffering on 47% charge, and I was pretty sure I had sweat stains on my shirt. Not exactly peak performance for someone who'd spent the entire semester trying to be invisible.

Then I saw her—Maya—walking down the hallway like she owned the school, which she kind of did. Sophomore class president, varsity soccer, and somehow still found time to rescue stray animals. I'd been in her bio class since September and had spoken approximately three words to her, all of them "here" when she asked for homework.

So of course I did the most logical thing: I hid behind a row of lockers and started following her. Like a total creep. Like some wannabe spy in a bad Netflix show. But I couldn't help it—I needed to know where she went every Tuesday at 3:15, when she mysteriously disappeared from campus.

She led me to the old library building, the one nobody used anymore. Through the cracked door, I watched her pull something from her backpack. A container of food. And then, from behind a stack of discarded books, a cat emerged. Not some majestic, Instagram-worthy cat—we're talking scrappy, one-eared, possibly-a-raccoon-hybrid cat.

Maya sat on the floor, cross-legged in her perfect jeans, and let this creature eat from her hand while she talked to it about her day. About how she was tired of always having to be perfect. About how sometimes she wanted to disappear.

I stood there, completely exposed, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. Maya wasn't some untouchable goddess. She was just another person, feeding a stray cat because she needed someone to listen.

The zombie brain fog suddenly lifted. Maybe we were all just pretending to have it together, following each other around, hoping someone would see who we actually were. I turned to leave, but the cat looked up, eyes locking with mine, and I swear it winked.