The Market's Last Vitamin

The vitamin C bottle sat on her desk like a paperweight for lies. Sarah had started taking them three months ago, when the insomnia began, when her boss's hand lingered too long on her shoulder after meetings, when she realized she was bearing the weight of a secret that could dismantle the entire department.

Her golden retriever, Bear, waited at home. She'd named him ironically—he was nothing like a bear, all soft fur and anxious tail wags, the opposite of the predation she witnessed daily in the corporate corridors. Bear was the only thing that felt real anymore.

"You're not thinking about tomorrow's presentation, are you?" Arthur's voice came from the doorway. His tie was slightly loosened, the post-meeting signal that blurred professional boundaries.

Sarah swallowed a vitamin with a sip of lukewarm coffee. The pill scraped her throat. "Just rehearsing."

"You're tense." He stepped closer. "I could help you relax."

Outside, it had started raining. She thought about Bear alone in her apartment, probably curled on his bed, the one purchase from her last relationship she hadn't thrown away. What was she bearing, really? The weight of not speaking, of swallowing harassment like another vitamin supplement—something supposed to make her stronger but actually just postponing the inevitable.

Her phone showed an email from HR: Investigation into the upcoming quarter.

"Arthur," she said, her voice steady for the first time in months. "I need to tell you something."

The vitamin bottle tipped over on her desk, scattering orange pills across her keyboard. Some things can't be contained anymore.

"I'm not rehearsing," she said. "I'm preparing a testimony."

Bear would be waiting. She would pick him up early, take him to the park, let him run until he collapsed, and then she would breathe again.

The bear of a burden was finally lifting.