Supplemental Existence

Margot's cat, Barnaby, watched her with that unblinking judgment only cats possess. She stared at the orange prescription bottle on her counter—Vitamin D, the doctor had said. "You're deficient, sweetie. The Seattle winter will do that."

But Margot knew it wasn't just the winter.

Her phone buzzed. Elena.

Elena, who had been her best friend since sophomore year, who had stood by her through her divorce, who had held her hair back when she drank too much after her mother's funeral. Elena, who now sent memes instead of asking how she was doing.

"Coffee?" the text read. "My treat."

Margot hadn't seen Elena in three months. Not since that dinner party where Elena had talked over her story about the promotion to recount her own weekend wine tasting adventure. Not since Margot had realized their friendship had become something she took—daily supplements, maintenance doses—like the vitamins lining her cabinet.

Barnaby wound around her legs, purring. At least he was honest. He wanted food, warmth, affection. He didn't pretend to care about her career goals or dating life while secretly checking his watch.

She remembered when friendship had felt electric, nourishing, like real food rather than supplements. When had it become obligatory?

The phone buzzed again. "Still there? The new place on 5th Avenue."

Margot looked at the vitamin bottle. Deficient. Depleted. Maintained but not thriving.

"Can't," she typed back. "Busy."

"Next week then?"

"Maybe."

She opened the bottle, shook out a pill. The cat meowed, demanding his breakfast. Margot wondered if she'd been someone's vitamin once too—providing just enough sustenance to keep them going, never more, never less.

The pill sat bitter on her tongue. Some deficiencies, she decided, couldn't be fixed with supplements.

Barnaby butted his head against her hand. Honest hunger. Honest love. Margot poured his food, then sat on the floor beside him, letting herself feel lonely instead of treating it like something to be cured.