Supplements and Softball

Marcus stood in the vitamin aisle, staring at row after row of promises in amber bottles. B12 for energy. D3 for mood. Omega-3 for a heart that still felt fragile six months after Sarah left. He grabbed a bottle at random—something with "bright" in the name, as if optimism could be manufactured.

"You look like shit," said a voice behind him.

He turned to find Elena, his oldest friend, wearing that expression she'd mastered in their twenties—a cocktail of concern and judgment. They'd played softball together every Sunday for three years, back when friendship was simpler than whatever this was.

"Rough night," he lied.

She followed him to the register, watching him buy a papaya and an orange instead of groceries. Real food didn't seem worth the effort lately.

"The team's playing Sunday," she said. "Old Times league. You should come."

Marcus hadn't picked up a baseball since the divorce papers arrived. His glove was probably still in the garage, next to Sarah's packed boxes. But Elena was already pulling out her phone, showing him the flyer—adults in their thirties who'd paid fifty dollars to pretend they hadn't aged, pretending beer gut was just a late growth spurt.

"I don't have it in me, El."

"You used to love it," she said. "Remember that catch you made in '18?"

He remembered. He remembered everything—how Sarah had screamed from the bleachers, how his shoulder had ached for days, how good it felt to be seen. But that was before vitamins replaced joy, before orange juice at 3am became a meal, before the word "friend" started feeling like an accusation.

"Come," she said, softer. "Just one game."

Marcus looked at the supplements in his bag. At the papaya that would probably rot on his counter. At Elena, who'd loved him through worse than this.

"Sunday," he said. "I'll be there."

She grinned—bright and manufactured and exactly what he needed. "Bring your glove."

He walked home eating the orange, sticky juice on his fingers, thinking maybe happiness wasn't something you could buy in bottles. Maybe it was just showing up. Maybe it was time to stop fixing what wasn't broken and start playing again.