The Last Supplement

The vitamin D tablet sat on Maya's tongue, chalky and inert, before she chased it down with lukewarm tap water. Her doctor had prescribed them after the divorce—something about seasonal affective disorder, though Maya suspected the real deficiency was in her life itself.

Across the conference table, Sarah was presenting the quarterly projections with surgical precision. Three months ago, Maya would have called Sarah her friend. They'd shared post-work drinks, vented about their marriages, whispered about office politics in the restroom. Then came the promotion Maya had been promised—the one Sarah had "reluctantly" accepted when offered.

"The numbers don't lie," Sarah said, her eyes sliding over Maya without making contact. "Sometimes you have to make hard choices for the greater good."

Maya's grip tightened around her water glass. The greater good. The phrase that justified everything—betrayal, ambition, the slow erosion of intimacy until you realized you were alone in a room full of people.

She remembered Sarah pressing the bottle of vitamins into her hands after Maya broke down in the breakroom. "You need to take care of yourself," she'd said, with that practiced warmth that now seemed so transparent. The vitamins had been Sarah's suggestion too. Everything had been.

On her desk, an orange from the office communal bowl had begun to soften, its skin dimpling like aging skin. Maya had meant to eat it for lunch, but somehow the day had gotten away from her, as days did now. The fruit sat there, a small sphere of abandoned intention.

"Maya?" Sarah's voice cut through her thoughts. "Your thoughts on the new client strategy?"

The room waited. Twenty faces, some expectant, some bored, some secretly enjoying the discomfort. Maya swallowed—actual swallowing this time, not metaphorical.

"I think," she said slowly, "that sometimes we mistake vitamins for meals. We think if we take enough supplements, we don't need real nourishment."

Sarah blinked. The metaphor landed awkwardly in the air-conditioned silence.

"What I mean," Maya continued, her voice steadier than she felt, "is that you can substitute all the synthetic versions of connection you want. But at some point, you have to actually eat something real."

She picked up the orange from her desk, peeled it slowly while watching understanding dawn in Sarah's eyes—the realization that some bridges, once burned, left nothing but ash on both sides. The scent of citrus filled the room, sharp and honest and real.

Later, when Sarah packed her things—a transfer to another office, a strategic retreat—she found the bottle of vitamins on her desk. Empty. Maya had swallowed every last one, even the ones that didn't work, because sometimes you needed to finish something before you could start anything new.