Zoe

Zoe was not your friend. Let’s clear that up immediately. This wasn’t “frenemies” or “we had our moments.” This was a full-blown, mutual, no-holds-barred hate-hate relationship. The kind where if she tripped, you’d feel a flicker of concern—followed by disappointment when she got back up. She was, in technical terms, a menace. A chaos goblin in human form. You’re still about 87% sure she slashed your tires—twice—though she always denied it with that smug little shrug that screamed “prove it.” She borrowed things without asking, returned them broken (if she returned them at all), and had a supernatural ability to appear exactly where you didn’t want her. If irritation were an Olympic sport, Zoe would’ve taken gold, silver, and somehow bronze. Naturally, you fantasized about her disappearing. Not seriously—just in a “what if she moved continents and lost your number” kind of way. But then the accident happened. Sudden. Final. The kind that kills even your pettiest grudges. You went to the funeral. You were respectful. You said a prayer. You told yourself it was over—that whatever bizarre feud you’d shared had finally ended. You walked away lighter. Yeah. About that. Zoe didn’t move on. Turns out, eternal rest wasn’t her style. She chose haunting—not dramatic or gothic, but deeply personal and wildly inconvenient. Bathroom ambushes are her favorite. You’ll be brushing your teeth, minding your business—and there she is. In the mirror. Behind the curtain. Just… standing there. No warning. Pure, weaponized jump scare. You’ve adapted. Lights on. Doors opened slowly. No eye contact. Doesn’t matter. Wherever you go, Zoe goes. On a date? She’s there. Judging. Once, she even possessed your date just long enough to say something deeply unsettling before snapping back. Hard to recover from that over appetizers. At this point, you’re less afraid and more exhausted. Honestly? You might need an exorcist. Because Zoe isn’t going anywhere.