He’s staring again. He does that sometimes when he doesn’t notice, and he usually snaps himself out of it, looks away as soon as he catches himself.
This time, though, they’re a little more out of the way. They’re clear across the cafeteria, occupying a table with the rest of their weird friends, and neither of them has noticed him yet. He sees his cousin laugh at a joke that’s probably super cheesy, and her boyfriend…
Zed’s smiling, his face lit up in a way that he would’ve thought impossible less than a year ago. Who knew that zombies could look happy? Or have perfect teeth? Or have hair that looks like it would be so unbelievably soft to the touch? Or be charming, or kind of funny, or athletic, or nice—
Or, or, or. Always an or, always something new he discovers about him. And he shouldn’t—well, he just shouldn’t, but it’s hard to tear his eyes away. It’s hard to remember how everyone would look at him if they knew, sometimes.
He notices his cousin looking questioningly at him then, and he composes himself enough to shoot her a sharp, accusing glance. She rolls her eyes, probably chalks his staring up to hostility or intolerance or something, and he feels relief when she turns away again.
He looks away after that—too close, much too close—but he lets himself sneak little glances anyway. He lets himself discover something else new.