The Last Vitamin

Mara sat on the bench outside her office building, staring at the half-eaten salad in her lap. The spinach had wilted in the afternoon heat, curling into itself like something ashamed. She checked her iPhone again—three unread messages from Richard, her boss of six months. The man was a human wrecking ball, a bull in a china shop who considered diplomacy a personal weakness.

Inside, the corporate hierarchy loomed. She'd climbed the pyramid for twelve years, sacrificing weekends, relationships, and now, apparently, her ability to enjoy lunch without checking for disaster. Richard's last message glowed on her screen: *"We need to discuss your vitamin deficiencies in this team's approach."* Corporate speak for *"work harder or find another pyramid to climb."*

Her mother had called that morning, worried. "You sound exhausted, honey. Have you been taking your vitamins?"

Mara had almost laughed. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken anything that wasn't caffeine or Advil. The spinach on her fork seemed to mock her—green, healthy, representative of a life she didn't have. Runners ran. They ate things that grew from dirt. They slept through the night. They didn't answer emails at 2 AM from men who treated staff like replaceable parts.

She thought about David, the architect she'd dated three years ago. He'd built actual structures, things that lasted. *"You're climbing someone else's pyramid,"* he'd told her once, watching her respond to work emails during dinner. They'd broken up two weeks later.

Her phone buzzed. Richard again. *"Conference room. Five minutes. Bring the Q3 projections."*

Mara stood up, tossed the salad into the trash, and brushed crumbs from her blouse. The spinach remained uneaten. Her vitamin supplements sat untouched on her kitchen counter at home. The bull would keep charging through the office china shop, and she'd keep trying not to get broken.

But as she walked toward the glass doors reflecting her tired face, something shifted. She didn't check the message. She didn't quicken her step. For the first time in twelve years, Mara wondered what might happen if she simply stopped climbing.

Inside her pocket, her iPhone lit up with a fourth notification. She kept walking, letting the screen fade to black.