The Last Real Thing

The morning ritual never varied: vitamin D with breakfast, vitamin C after lunch, omega-3 before bed. As if any of it could reverse the slow decay of thirty-nine years spent chasing things that didn't matter. Marcus watched his reflection in the office window — dark circles under his eyes, skin that had forgotten what sunlight felt like. A corporate zombie in a tailored suit.

He took up running six months ago, when Elena left. It started as escape, something to burn away the insomnia and the way their empty bedroom echoed with everything unsaid. Now it was just another routine: ten kilometers every morning, breath fogging in the dawn air, legs pumping against pavement while his thoughts chased themselves in circles. Running from nothing. Running toward nothing.

The padel court was Marco's idea. "You need to get out, mate. Meet people. Play something." So Marcus found himself at the club every Tuesday, standing opposite Sarah — forty-two, newly divorced, smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Your backhand's improving," she said, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"I had a lot of anger to work through."

Sarah laughed, and it was real, not performative. Not like the laughter in office meeting rooms where everyone pretended to understand jokes that weren't funny. "Aren't we all?"

They played for an hour, the ball ricocheting off walls, Marcus's vitamin regimen forgotten in his locker alongside his corporate zombie mask. Here, muscles burning, heart hammering, he felt something like alive.

Afterward, they sat on the bench outside.

"I started running too," Sarah said, staring at her worn trainers. "After David moved out. I think I was trying to outrun the silence in my house."

Marcus looked at her really — the lines around her eyes, the way her shoulders carried everything she'd survived. "Did it work?"

"No. But I stopped taking the sleeping pills. That's something."

He thought about his vitamins, the daily capsules that promised to fix what was broken. "I keep thinking if I take enough of them, I won't feel so goddamn tired all the time."

"Maybe we're not supposed to feel awake yet." Sarah stood up, shouldering her bag. "Same time next week?"

Marcus realized he was looking forward to it. Not running from something, but toward something. A real conversation. A game that mattered. Someone who saw through the zombie routine.

"I'll be here," he said.

That night, he skipped the omega-3. For the first time in months, he fell asleep without running first.