Zeros at the Gala

The market was still charging—that magnificent, never-ending bull run that had made everyone invincible, or at least made them believe they were. Elena stood by the terrace railing, champagne flute in hand, watching the city lights blur beneath her. She'd been promoted three times in eighteen months. She should feel victorious.

Instead, she felt like a zombie—hollowed out, moving through scripted motions, something that wore power suits and nodded at meetings while the real Elena had dissolved somewhere around the third quarter.

"You look like you're swimming upstream," said David, materializing with two fresh glasses. Her oldest friend. The one who'd taken the buyout last year, who'd traded equity for a cabin in Montana. "Still running the rat race?"

"It's not a race," she said, hearing how hollow it sounded. "It's—it's building something."

"Is it?" David's smile was gentle, pitying. "Because last time I checked, the person I knew—she painted, she laughed, she had conversations that weren't about Q3 projections—she's been missing for months."

The bull market roared on behind them, the ambient celebration of wealth and dominance. Someone gave a toast. Elena felt something crack open in her chest.

"I think," she said, setting the untouched glass down, "I think I forgot how to be anything else."

David didn't say I told you so. He just said, "The water's fine, El. Come find me when you're ready to stop drowning."

She watched him walk away, solid and present in a way she hadn't been in longer than she could name. The zombie hesitated. Then, for the first time in months, Elena stepped off the edge of the script and started swimming toward something real.