The Pyramid in Her Hat

Margot stared at the pyramid of supplements on her desk—vitamin D, B-complex, magnesium, fish oil. Each pill a tiny promise that tomorrow she'd feel less hollow than today. The office hummed around her, fluorescent lights casting that familiar gray pallor over everything.

"You're not eating," Daniel said, appearing beside her cubicle. Her friend, her rival, the one person who knew exactly how many years they'd both wasted climbing this corporate ladder that led nowhere.

"Not hungry." She adjusted the wide-brimmed hat she'd worn to work—a ridiculous affectation she'd adopted after her mother's funeral. "The new VP wants the Q3 projections by five."

Daniel laughed, but his eyes betrayed that same exhausted recognition they always shared. "Remember when we thought this was a meritocracy? Turned out to be a pyramid scheme with better branding."

She swallowed three vitamins dry. "I interviewed for that nonprofit yesterday. The one that places teachers in underfunded districts."

Daniel's pause stretched into something heavy. "And?"

"And I'd take a sixty percent pay cut. Move to a city where I know nobody. Start over at thirty-seven."

"So you'll stay." It wasn't a question.

"I'll stay," she agreed, adjusting her hat brim against the fluorescent glare. "Someone has to pay for the supplements."

He reached over, squeezed her hand—just once, fleeting, before pulling away. "We could both leave."

"We won't."

"No," he said softly. "We won't."

The pyramid of vitamins sat between them, a monument to all the tomorrows they'd sacrifice for a security that wasn't security at all, just fear wearing a better suit.