Chlorine and Betrayal

The vitamin D supplement sat on Maya's desk like an accusation. "For optimal mood regulation," the label read, courtesy of Vitality Corp's wellness initiative. After Sarah's presentation—where she'd claimed Maya's research as her own—Maya needed more than vitamins.

She found herself at the apartment complex's swimming pool at 11 PM, the water black and still. This was where she came now, when the apartment felt too empty and her career felt too stolen. The chlorine bit at her eyes as she slipped beneath the surface, holding her breath until her lungs burned.

A cat watched from the fence, its orange fur glowing under the pool's underwater lights. It appeared every night, a silent witness to her submerged midnight prayers.

"You know what Sarah did?" Maya whispered to the cat one night, her hair plastered to her skull. The cat licked its paw, indifferent. "She stood there in her pressed blazer and took credit for six months of my work. Smiled at me like we were still friends."

The word tasted like poison. Friend. Such a small syllable for such a massive betrayal.

Maya's phone buzzed on the lounge chair—Sarah again, probably with another fake-friendly check-in. She let it sink into the pool's deep end, watching the screen die beneath the water. A terrible idea, but somehow appropriate.

The cat meowed, finally, as if approving this small act of destruction.

"Tomorrow," Maya said, pulling herself from the water, muscles aching with the effort of resurrection. "Tomorrow I email HR. Tomorrow I take back what's mine."

She wrapped her towel tight, the cat's golden eyes following her to the gate. The vitamin D pills waited in her apartment. Tomorrow she'd throw them out. Some deficiencies, she decided, were worth having.