The Zombies We Become

Maya stood at the kitchen counter, knife hovering over the papaya she'd bought impulsively. Its skin was mottled yellow-green, like something decaying, and she wondered why she'd bothered. Three years ago, on their honeymoon in Maui, David had fed her papaya slices with his fingers while sunrise painted the ocean gold. Now he was probably already at the office, running from whatever hollow conversation they might have had over coffee.

She cut into the fruit. The smell hit her—sweet, cloying, faintly musky. It was the scent of lost things.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus, the new senior analyst: *Want to grab drinks? I promise not to talk about the Q3 report.*

Maya stared at her reflection in the darkened window above the sink. Her hair, once glossy and brown, fell limp around her face. She'd stopped dyeing it six months ago, letting the gray strands thread through like unwanted truths. At thirty-seven, she felt ancient. A zombie moving through the motions—work, home, sleep, repeat. Her marriage had become a shared routine of avoidance, two ghosts haunting the same rooms.

She typed back: *Yes. 7pm. The bar on 4th.*

Then she deleted it.

Then she typed it again.

The papaya sat sliced on a plate, its black seeds glistening like eyes. She took a bite and almost gagged—it was nothing like she remembered. Too soft, too sweet, fermenting on her tongue. Everything rots if you leave it long enough.

That evening, as she ran a brush through her hair and applied lipstick she hadn't worn in months, she couldn't tell if she was finally waking up or just becoming a different kind of zombie. The dead don't know they're dead, after all. Maybe that was the problem all along.