Orange Peel Morning

The vitamin sat on my tongue like a tiny surrender. A chalky, lemon-flavored admission that I was doing this — actually showing up to cross country practice at 6 AM because Maya said it would "totally change my vibe."

I hated running. I hated the way my lungs burned like I'd swallowed fire. But Maya was my best friend since sixth grade, the kind of friend who knew your darkest secrets and still showed up at your door with boba when your life fell apart. Until she found track.

Now she was different. Faster. Distant.

"You're not pushing yourself," she called from somewhere ahead, her orange Conese ghosting through the fog. Everything about Maya had turned orange lately — her shoes, her hair (she'd dyed it last week, said it was her "period of rebirth"), even the massive bottle of neon pills she'd started taking.

"What are those anyway?" I'd asked yesterday.

"B vitamins," she'd said, all mysterious energy and sudden confidence. "They're like, fuel. For everything."

I slowed to a walk, chest heaving. The sun was coming up, painting the sky in streaks of tangerine and pink. Beautiful. Sickening.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. Unknown numbers never brought good news, but I checked anyway.

*u r mayas friend right*.

I stared at the screen, then at Maya's orange silhouette far ahead.

Another text: *she told every1 ur stealing her vitamins. she said u have a problem.*

I stopped. My mom's prenatal vitamins. I'd taken exactly three, trying to understand what Maya was always talking about with "being your best self." She'd caught me.

And she was using it to reinvent herself.

The running wasn't about running. The vitamins weren't about vitamins. The orange hair wasn't about orange. It was about leaving behind everything she used to be — including me.

I turned around and walked home, my orange peel of a friendship burning in my throat. Some vitamins aren't meant to be swallowed. Some friends aren't meant to stay.