Zombie Mode Engaged

The fourth period bell barely registered. My brain felt like it had been replaced with cotton candy — fluffy, pink, and completely useless. Welcome to zombie mode, the natural state of every junior during finals week.

I shuffled toward the cafeteria, moving with the grace of a reanimated corpse from The Walking Dead. Behind me, someone was definitely talking about me. I caught the whisper-fragments: "weird," "changed," "whatever." That's the thing about high school — you can be the main character or the background extra in someone else's story, and you don't even get to pick which role.

Marcus waved from our usual table. "Yo, Maya! You look dead on your feet. Again."

"Thanks, friend. Really selling the comfort there." I slid into the seat across from him, dropping my backpack like it contained bricks instead of textbooks.

"I'm just saying. You've been walking around like a zombie for three weeks. Finals are important, but you're literally forgetting to eat." He pushed a granola bar toward me. "Your cat posted about your whereabouts on her story again, didn't she?"

I had to laugh. "Mr. Whiskers doesn't have Instagram, Marcus."

"You know what I mean. Your actual best friend, the one with fur and zero judgment." He leaned in. "Look, I know things are weird with Sarah since everything went down at homecoming. But you're still you. Even in zombie mode."

Something about the way he said it — like he actually believed it — made my chest feel less tight. The truth was, I'd been hiding in my room, letting Mr. Whiskers sleep on my legs while I doomscrolled past midnight, avoiding everyone who used to matter. The cat had become my only real social interaction. Pathetic? Maybe. But also, necessary.

"You're not a zombie, Maya. You're just going through something." Marcus's voice softened. "But you can't just... disappear. Some of us actually miss your chaotic energy."

I looked at him — really looked at him. The same friend who'd sat with me every day since sixth grade, who knew my coffee order and my darkest secrets and still showed up. The zombie feeling wasn't about sleep deprivation. It was about being ghost in my own life, haunting the hallways but never actually living there.

"Yeah," I said, finally meeting his eyes. "Okay. But you're buying the boba after school. Consider it your friend tax."

"Deal. And we're going to your place. Mr. Whiskers and I need to have a conversation about his influence on your sleep schedule."

For the first time in weeks, the cotton-candy feeling in my head started to clear. Maybe zombies could come back to life after all.