The Fox in the Mirror

The vitamin D bottle sat on her nightstand, a daily reminder of the deficiency that had been slowly hollowing her out. Three years of pills, of blood tests, of doctors saying 'we don't know why you're so tired.' She swallowed one with room-temperature water while her cat, Barnaby, watched from the doorway with those judging amber eyes.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Marcus: *Can we talk?*

The fox who had been sleeping in their bed for seven years. Clever, adaptable, impossible to pin down. Last week, she'd found the receipt for the necklace he claimed was 'for his mother.' The timing didn't match. Nothing matched anymore.

She'd always known there was something wild in him, something that couldn't be domesticated. That had been part of the attraction at first — the way his eyes darted around rooms, cataloguing exits, possibilities. The way he could charm anyone, twist any situation to his advantage. She'd told herself it was ambition. Charm. Social intelligence.

Now she knew it was something else.

Barnaby wound around her ankles, purring. Animals sensed things. Cats especially. He'd never liked Marcus much.

She typed back: *Not tonight.*

Another buzz: *Please. Five minutes.*

The fox was cornered now. Good. Let him feel it.

Her reflection caught her in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. Dark circles under eyes that had seen too much. A body that had been carrying the weight of someone else's lies for years. She'd been the patient one. The understanding one. The one who made excuses.

The vitamin D was supposed to help with fatigue. But some tiredness came from the soul, not the blood.

She put on her coat. Barnaby meowed — a question, a command. He knew the routine.

'I'm just going to the store,' she told him. 'I'll be back.'

For now. The fox would still be waiting tomorrow. But she was learning — slowly, painfully — that some things you didn't invite inside anymore. Some doors you kept closed.

She picked up her keys. Let him wait.