When Zombies Cry Papaya Tears

I felt like a total zombie walking into first period—three hours of sleep will do that to you. The AC blasted freezing air, but my brain was still cooking from last night's text marathon with Maya. My former best friend. My actual former best friend, because apparently seventh-grade friendship contracts expire over summer break.

"Earth to Leo!" Jordan snapped their fingers in my face. "You good? You look... dead."

"Living the dream," I muttered, slumping into my desk. "Just spectacular."

The truth? I'd been ghosted. Hard. Maya went to camp, came back with a whole new vibe, and suddenly our three-year friendship was as irrelevant as my old TikTok account. Meanwhile, I was stuck in this emotional purgatory, overanalyzing every Instagram story she posted without me.

After school, I hit the pool—my grandma's apartment complex has this tiny deck that nobody uses. Floating there, letting the water swallow all the noise, felt like the only thing keeping me sane. Until I found myself crying into my grandma's weird papaya smoothie experiment that evening.

"This tastes like sunshine and regret," I told her.

Grandma just laughed. "Papaya's good for the soul, mijo. Sometimes things fall apart so better things can fall together."

I rolled my eyes, but something clicked. Maybe being a zombie wasn't about being dead—it was about transitioning. Shedding an old version of yourself. The next day, I DM'd Jordan about the biology homework, and we ended up FaceTiming for two hours about literally nothing and everything.

Friday night, I found myself at the beach with Jordan and their crew, eating papaya from some fruit stand and actually laughing. Not faking it. And when Maya texted—"miss you, want to hang?"—I didn't feel desperate anymore. I felt... okay. Not great, not terrible, just okay. And okay felt like progress.

The zombie apocalypse hadn't ended. But at least I wasn't walking through it alone anymore.