The Supplement Plan

Marco checked his iPhone for the third time that morning. Still no reply from Elena. Not even a read receipt. The blue light seared his retinas at 6 AM—too early for this particular flavor of humiliation.

He swallowed his vitamin D supplement with lukewarm tap water, the pill scraping his throat like an accusation. The doctor had recommended them, said something about bone health and seasonal depression. Marco had nodded, thinking about how his father had died alone in a condo filled with nutritional supplements.

He was supposed to be running by now. That was the agreement: five kilometers every other day, heart rate up, endorphins flowing, middle age kept at bay through sheer cardio. But his running shoes sat by the door like loyal pets he'd stopped feeding.

Instead, he stood at the kitchen counter, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. Forty-two years old and still playing padel three times a week with men he secretly despised. The sport had become everything—the Saturday games, the equipment upgrades, the post-match beers where they bragged about daughters in private schools and second homes in Valldemossa.

Last Tuesday, after Marco missed an easy shot and cost them the match, Javier had slapped his back and said, "That's what happens when you're not focused, amigo." The condescension had been deliberate. Elena had watched from the sidelines, her phone in her hand, probably texting someone else.

"You're happier at the club than you are at home," she'd told him that night, her voice flat. "You're more present with Javier and that stupid racket than you've been with me in months."

She'd left Thursday morning. Just a note on the counter: I need to think. Her phone had been off since.

Marco filled a glass with water from the dispenser. The filter needed changing; the water tasted faintly of rust. He thought about texting Javier to cancel today's game. He thought about going for a run in the rain that was forecast for afternoon.

Instead, he unlocked his iPhone and opened the padel club's group chat. Something about a tournament next month. Who was in?

He typed: Count me in. Then deleted it. Then typed it again.

The water sat untouched on the counter. Marco walked past his running shoes and opened the cabinet where the vitamins lived in neat, promising rows. He swallowed three more with a swig from the glass. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would run. Tomorrow he would call her. Tomorrow everything would change.