The Stray Who Saved Me
I started running because everything else felt like it was closing in. Mom's new vitamin regimen—her attempt to fix whatever she thought was broken about me—sat on the kitchen counter in neat orange bottles. "These will help with focus," she'd said, like focus was something you could supplement your way into.
So I ran. Every afternoon at 4, same time the track team practiced but I wasn't on it. Coach said I had the wrong build. Whatever that meant.
The dog showed up on a Tuesday—some scrawny mutt with one floppy ear and eyes that had seen way too much of the world for a stray. I was midway through my usual route, lungs burning, when he just... joined. Kept pace like he'd been training for this his whole life.
"Yo, you following me?" I wheezed. He tilted his head like, obviously.
After that, he was there every day. I started calling him Vitamin—which was ironic, given Mom's obsession—because he was the only thing actually making me feel better. We'd run until my legs quaked, then I'd sit behind the abandoned 7-Eleven and split my granola bar with him.
"You know you're literally a walking mental health break, right?" I told him one day. He just thumped his tail against the pavement like, glad you caught on.
The day I found out Mom had been reading my journal—the one where I wrote about how much I hated the pills, the pressure, everyone's expectations about what I should be—I didn't go home. I ran until the sky turned purple, Vitamin beside me every step. When I finally collapsed, he pressed his cold nose against my cheek.
"Yeah," I whispered. "Me too, bro."
That weekend, I told Mom everything. About the vitamins I'd been flushing. The running. The journal. And Vitamin, who I'd secretly been feeding hot dogs from my lunch money.
She cried. I didn't.
Vitamin sleeps in my room now. Mom says he's technically her dog since she paid the vet bills, but we both know the truth. Some things you can't supplement or control. Sometimes, you just have to keep running until you find what actually heals you.