Absorption Rate

Maya stared at the orange plastic bottle on the bathroom counter. The vitamin D supplements she'd bought for Julian—because his doctor said he needed them, because he always complained about fatigue during winter—now stood like a tiny monument to their marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five capsules. Exactly enough for one year.

The expiration date was still five years away. She'd calculated once, in the beginning, when she still believed in planning futures. Now the calculation seemed like a different kind of math entirely.

She turned on the faucet and watched the water rush into the sink, clear and indifferent. In the mirror, her hair fell past her shoulders—still the same length Julian had loved, had buried his face in when they made love, had wrapped around his finger that night he told her he wasn't happy, hadn't been for years. The hair was a tether to a woman she no longer recognized.

The scissors were in the drawer beneath the vitamins.

Maya remembered bringing Julian soup when he'd been sick last winter. How she'd measured his temperature, reminded him to take his vitamins, brought him glass after glass of water. How he'd looked at her then: with gratitude, yes, but something else too. Something she hadn't wanted to name. The way you look at someone who's taking care of you, because they take care of you, not because you love them.

The first cut surprised her with how easily the hair fell. Dark curls dropping onto the white tile like dead things. The scissors made a crisp, deliberate sound. Each slice felt like shedding weight she'd been carrying for years.

Her reflection changed with every lock that fell. The woman in the mirror became sharper, more present. Less familiar.

When she was done, Maya's hair brushed her ears. She ran her hands over the short strands, feeling oddly light-headed. The vitamins on the counter caught her attention again. She picked up the bottle, twisted off the cap, and dumped them all into the toilet.

She flushed before she could talk herself out of it.

The water swirled and carried them away—months of care, daily rituals, all those little acts of love that hadn't been enough. Watching them disappear, Maya finally understood what she'd been absorbing all these years. And what, for the first time in a decade, she was ready to let go of.