Solubility

The vitamin C sat on the kitchen counter like an accusation. Marcus had bought it—that giant economy bottle, the one you buy when you believe in forever. Three months after he left, it was still there, orange tablets promising immunity I couldn't feel.

I took two anyway, swallowing them dry before my morning run. That was the new routine: five miles before dawn, running the same route along the waterfront until my lungs burned and the bay water turned silver with sunrise. Running was the only thing that quieted the betrayal down.

Sarah called that evening. She and Marcus had been friends for six years before she became his new life.

"We didn't want you to hear it from someone else," she said, voice soft with pity that felt like performance. "We're getting married."

The water glass in my hand trembled. I watched the surface ripple, concentric circles spreading like the damage from a stone dropped in stillness.

"That's wonderful," I said, and meant it in the way you mean things that cut you.

My cat, Bess, wound between my legs, purring like she'd never met a betrayal she couldn't sleep through. She'd been Marcus's anniversary present two years ago—the cat I'd kept, the friendship I'd lost, the man who'd vanished like steam in cold air. Some nights I looked at her and saw everything I couldn't forgive myself for forgetting.

The next morning, I threw out the vitamin C. The bottle made a satisfying thud in the trash, final and unceremonious. Some things you don't save. Some things you let dissolve.

I ran further than usual that day, eight miles along trails where the water kept rushing past, indifferent and ongoing. By mile seven, I finally understood: I'd been running from the wrong thing. It wasn't the betrayal I needed to escape—it was the belief that any of it had been permanent.

Bess was waiting on the mat when I returned. I picked her up, her warmth solid and present, and poured fresh water into her bowl. The future had always been fluid anyway.