The Morning After the Night Before

Emma stared at the orange plastic bottle on her nightstand. The **vitamin** D supplements her doctor prescribed sat untouched for three weeks, much like everything else in her life since the promotion. She was supposed to take them with breakfast, but breakfast had become optional, just like her happiness, just like the sex she used to have with Michael.

She reached for her tennis **hat** instead — a faded blue Nike cap that smelled of sweat and the coastal club where Michael had taught her to play **padel** last summer. "It'll be fun," he'd said, already pulling away from her even then, already disappearing into his new startup, his new life, his new everything that didn't include her.

Now she padded through their apartment at 6 AM, her body moving through automatic motions like a **zombie** in some third-rate horror movie. Coffee. Shower. Train. Office. Return. The corporate bullshit and the marriage bullshit had merged into one long gray corridor.

The padel racket in her closet caught the morning light. She hadn't played since Michael left three months ago. Too many memories of his hands correcting her grip, his laugh when she missed an easy shot, the way he looked at her across the net like she was still the person he'd promised to grow old with.

Emma took a vitamin D pill. She put on the hat. She grabbed the racket. Maybe she'd go to the club alone. Maybe she'd finally feel something besides this hollow, walking-dead exhaustion. Maybe the sun would rise for real this time.