Digital Photosynthesis

The wilted spinach lay in Julia's refrigerator, a forgotten testament to her ambitious week one meal planning. She'd bought it with such intention—the organic kind, sold in plastic containers that promised wellness in every serving. Now it lay limp and yellowing, much like how she felt staring at her phone.

Another notification from the wellness app: 'Time for your Vitamin D supplement!'

Julia clicked dismiss. She was thirty-four, successful by every metric that mattered to her parents, yet somehow the most vibrant thing in her life was the blue glow of her iPhone screen at 2 AM.

"You're rotting," she whispered to the spinach, though she meant herself.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marc, the man she'd been seeing for three months. The one who made her laugh until her ribs ached but refused to define what they were doing.

'Dinner tonight? My place. I'm making that pasta you liked.'

Julia stood there, hand hovering over her phone. She remembered how tenderly he'd peeled an orange for her last weekend, how his fingers had moved with deliberate care, separating each segment. How he'd looked at her like she was something nourishing.

The spinach could still be salvaged. Sautéed with garlic, maybe. Some things, with the right attention, could be revived.

She typed back: 'Only if you let me bring wine.'

Her vitamin reminder flashed again. Julia walked to the sink, threw away the spinach, and wondered if some things were meant to be consumed before they had the chance to spoil. She grabbed her keys. Some nourishments couldn't be scheduled.