Zombieing
They rise from the grave they dug, smiling like the silence never happened, asking for a second chance.
Months later—when you’ve finally stitched the wound shut—they claw out of the ground with a “hey stranger” like rigor mortis never happened. They smell like old promises and cheap cologne, insisting they’re brand new, but you can still see the rot clinging to their words. Don’t hand them your heart again; it’s still beating in your chest for a reason.
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When Zombieing Returns, I Choose My Timing and Finding Me
That night the world stopped, and the kitchen light hung pale as a question. Nine months passed with doors kept closed, a memory that wouldn’t quite leave. When the ghost of us returned, I chose my timing—and discovered a life beyond the hinge.