When Zombies Were Easier Than Friends

I was practically a zombie that Monday, running on three hours of sleep and panic about the history midterm. My best friend since seventh grade, Jordan, was already at our usual table, absentmindedly poking at something yellow in a Tupperware container.

"Try this," they said, sliding the container toward me. "It's papaya. Super mature, right? My mom's on this exotic fruit kick."

I stared at them. Jordan—my Jordan, who still ate dinosaur nuggets and refused to watch anything scarier than SpongeBob—was now someone who packed papaya in Tupperware. Someone who'd started hanging out with the theater crowd, wearing vintage thrift store jackets, using words like "aesthetic" and "authentic" without irony.

"Since when do YOU eat papaya?" I asked, hearing my voice come out sharper than intended.

"Since I'm trying new things," Jordan said, avoiding eye contact. "Not everyone wants to be stuck in the same routine forever."

The words hit like a physical blow. Stuck. routine. forever.

We'd been inseparable through awkward first crushes, embarrassing braces phases, and that time we'd both gotten stomach flu after eating suspicious gas station sushi. We had inside jokes that could crack us up across a crowded cafeteria. Now Jordan was quoting philosophy they'd learned from theater kids and eating papaya like it was totally normal.

"I should go," I said, grabbing my backpack. "I need to—"

"Running again," Jordan said quietly.

The comment stung because it was true. I'd been avoiding them for weeks, finding excuses to bail on plans, suddenly obsessed with track practice even though I'd complained about it all last season. Because facing Jordan meant facing how much things were changing, and some days I couldn't deal.

But as I walked away, I remembered last summer, when we'd spent three days straight playing that zombie apocalypse video game, surviving wave after wave together, sharing headphones and grape soda and laughing until 3 AM. Back when the only thing we were running from was pixelated monsters.

I turned back.

"Okay," I said, sitting back down. "Let me try the papaya. But I'm not promising anything."

Jordan's face lit up, just a little, and I realized maybe we weren't becoming zombies at all. We were just becoming different people, and the scary part wasn't the change—it was whether we'd still recognize each other when it was over.

The papaya was actually pretty good, though I'd never admit it.