The Absence You Can't Supplement Away

The vitamin D pills sit in the pantry,_EXPIRE date still two years away. Sarah bought them—two bottles, buy one get one free—because she said our bodies were starving from sunlight deprivation, from office fluorescent lights, from the way we lived like nocturnal creatures pretending to be diurnal. She was always like that: scientifically worried about my mortality while ignoring her own.

I run six miles on the same route we used to take together. The path along the river where we'd solve our relationship problems, career crises, existential dread through forward motion. Sarah believed running was cheaper than therapy and more effective than antidepressants. She had charts on her phone showing her heart rate variability, her sleep cycles, her vitamin levels—she was optimizing herself like code, except some bugs can't be patched.

The last time we ran, she complained about a persistent cough. I told her to see a doctor. She laughed, said she'd increased her vitamin C intake, was taking zinc supplements, was fine. Two months later: lung cancer. Stage four. The same friend who'd dragged me to wellness expos, who'd text me at 2 AM about new research on延缓 aging, who treated her body like a temple, was gone in six months. No amount of kale preparation could have saved her.

Now I run alone. I take the vitamins she bought. I track my sleep. I pretend that if I just maintain the rituals she believed in, I'm honoring something deeper than the hollow ache of her absence. Sometimes when I run, I hear her breath beside me, syncing with my stride. Then I remember: that's just memory, another supplement I can't absorb.

Tonight, I'll throw away the vitamin D bottle. Sarah would understand—she was always pragmatic about expiration dates, about not holding onto things past their prime. Even friendships, I suppose. Even life.