What Zombies Bear

The orange life preserver hung on the wall, cracked from years of sun. Sarah had picked it out—said it matched the sunset. Now she was gone, moved out three Tuesdays ago, and I was left with this lake house full of her things and my own insufficient grief.

"You're a zombie, Mark," she'd said in the kitchen, the day she told me she was leaving. "You're not dead, but you're not alive either. You just walk through rooms and pretend."

I'd wanted to argue, but something in me had recognized the truth. I bore it then, the way I'd borne everything since my father died: by not feeling it at all. That was my particular talent—endurance through numbness.

So here I was, alone at the lake, drinking cheap whiskey from a coffee mug. The sun was setting, painting the water the same orange as that damned life preserver. My phone buzzed on the counter. David, my oldest friend, the one person who'd known me since before I learned how to disappear inside myself.

"You coming to the party?" his text read.

I stared at the screen. Parties required small talk and genuine smiles, performances I hadn't rehearsed. But David had checked on me every day since Sarah left. He'd brought groceries. He'd sat in silence with me when words wouldn't come.

I typed back: "Be there in 30."

The zombie stood up. The zombie put on shoes and grabbed keys. But somewhere inside that hollowed-out shell, something stirred—a tiny, terrified spark. Maybe feeling was like riding a bike. Maybe you never really forgot how to bear the weight of being alive.

I looked at the orange life preserver one last time, then turned off the light and walked out the door.