Zombie Mode

Elena hadn't meant to become the kind of person who lived in zombie mode, but here she was—running on fumes and three hours of sleep, shuffling into her corporate apartment at 2 AM like the walking dead she mocked on Sunday nights. The elevator cable snapped with a metallic groan, plunging her car between floors, and some masochistic part of her thought: finally, something honest about this life.

She sank to the floor, letting her head thunk against the cold metal wall. Marcus's words from earlier echoed through her exhaustion: "You're running yourself into the ground, El." He'd said it with that tender concern that made her skin prickle, the same way he looked at her when she woke up gasping from nightmares about spreadsheets that wouldn't balance.

The rescue came three hours later. A firefighter with eyes like a startled bear helped her through the elevator shaft doors. "Rough night?" he asked, and Elena almost laughed. Rough night. Rough year. Rough life, compressed into spreadsheets and quarterly projections and that hollow feeling where purpose used to live.

She limped up the stairs to her apartment, where Barnaby—her ancient, blind golden retriever—waited by the door. He pressed his warm weight against her legs, the only being in her life who didn't want something from her. No deliverables. No expectations. Just this quiet, uncomplicated love that made her throat tighten.

"We're just zombies, aren't we, Bar?" she whispered into his soft fur. "Working. Eating. Sleeping. Barely alive until something snaps."

His tail thumped against the floorboards. Outside, the city hummed with millions of other sleepless souls, all running nowhere fast, all pretending this wasn't it. This wasn't the life they'd imagined at twenty-two.

Elena's phone buzzed. Marcus again: "You okay? Saw something about an elevator on the news."

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering. For three years, she'd been running—not toward something, but away from the terrifying stillness of admitting she was miserable. The trapped elevator had felt more real than anything she'd experienced in months.

Barnaby whined, nudging her hand. Outside, dawn was breaking over the skyline, painting the clouds pink and gold like something new might actually be possible.

Elena typed back: "Can we talk?"

The dog's tail thumped harder. For the first time in forever, something in her chest didn't feel quite so dead.