The Art of Leaving

The vitamin bottles lined up on her nightstand like silent sentinels—A, D, E, the alphabet of hope she swallowed each morning with a full glass of water. Sarah had started the regimen three months ago, around the time she stopped crying in the shower.

"You're obsessing again," Mark said from the bathroom, his voice muffled through the door. He was like that—a bull charging through conversations, oblivious to the delicate terrain of her feelings.

"It's self-care, Mark. Not everything is a symptom." She placed her vitamins back in the drawer, precisely aligned. He wouldn't understand. He never had.

Her sister had called her a fox once—sleek, watchful, always three moves ahead. But Sarah didn't feel clever anymore. She felt exhausted. The vitamins were just another ritual, another way to pretend she had control over the narrative of her life.

The water cooler at work had become her sanctuary. She'd stand there, cup after cup, watching the bubbles rise, thinking about how Mark had proposed in that same office building's lobby five years ago. He'd been full of fire then, passionate and overwhelming. Now he was just loud.

"You're distant," he'd told her last night. "You're always somewhere else."

She was somewhere else. She was already gone, living in the future she hadn't told him about. The vitamins weren't about health—they were about longevity. She needed to be strong for what came next. The water was preparation, a ritual cleansing.

"Sarah?" He was knocking now. "You okay in there?"

She looked at herself in the mirror. The fox staring back had made her decision weeks ago. She opened the drawer, swept the vitamins into her purse, and turned off the light.

"Fine," she called back. "Just thinking."

The bull would sleep soundly tonight. The fox would finally run.