Supplements and Storms

The vitamin D sat on her counter like a small amber promise — one she kept breaking, day after day. At 32, Maya had accumulated more supplements than convictions. The cat, Barnaby, watched from the refrigerator top with his usual judgment, his orange coat glowing in the harsh kitchen light.

Another Monday. The office was already demanding miracles she couldn't deliver. Her phone lit up with a text from him: 'Last night was a mistake.' She'd known it was coming, had felt it in the hollow space between their bodies when they'd slept together — desperate and transactional, two lonely people trying to consume each other's warmth.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open. The storm had been building all weekend, much like the ache in her chest she refused to name. She picked up an orange from the bowl, peeling it mechanically, the citrus scent sharp and real in her apartment of curated surfaces.

'You're going to be alone forever,' her mother had said over brunch yesterday, between mimosas and backhanded compliments. 'These men, they can sense desperation.'

Barnaby jumped down, nudging her ankle with his head. At least one living creature wanted something from her without asking what she could provide.

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the half-empty boxes from her move six months ago. She'd meant to unpack. Meant to find a therapist. Meant to stop sleeping with men who looked at her like a puzzle they'd already solved and found wanting.

She swallowed the vitamin with tap water, feeling ridiculous. As if her problem was nutritional.

Her phone buzzed again. 'Can we still be friends?'

Maya watched the rain begin to streak her window, blurring the city lights into something softer than reality. She thought about all the things she was supposed to be — settled, secure, sufficient. Instead she was just here, with an orange cat who tolerated her and a body that kept demanding to be fed and watered and loved.

She typed back: 'No.' Then deleted it. Then: 'I don't think so.' Then deleted that too.

Barnaby meowed, demanding dinner. Some things were simple.

The storm outside intensified, lightning now continuous, like the sky was tearing itself apart. Maya finished her orange, sticky fingers and all, and finally let herself cry. Not for him. Not for her mother. For the girl she'd been who thought by now she'd have figured it out.

Tomorrow she'd unpack the boxes. Tomorrow she'd cancel her dating apps. Tonight, she'd feed the cat and watch the lightning and be exactly, precisely as lonely as she was.