The Vitamin Aisle Epiphany

I see the flash before hearing the thunder - a brilliant **lightning** strike that makes the store's fluorescent lights flicker. Mrs. Gable looks up from her crossword puzzle, unfazed. "Happens all the time in these parts," she mutters.

I'm stuck working the Friday shift at Vitality Supplements while everyone else is at Taylor's party. My **iPhone** sits on the counter, screen lighting up with Snapchats I can't look at. I already know what they show: red cups, perfect filters, people having the kind of night I'm not having.

The automatic doors whoosh open. A girl walks in - someone I recognize from school but don't really know. Maya. The quiet one who sits in the back of AP Chem, always wearing those oversized hoodies.

She's soaking wet, hair plastered to her face. Without a word, she marches to the **orange** juice display, grabs the smallest bottle, and brings it to my counter.

"My dad got diagnosed," she blurts out, like she's been holding it in forever. "He needs to start taking this **vitamin** D complex daily, but he won't remember. Can you show me which ones actually work?"

And just like that, something shifts.

I spend the next twenty minutes explaining supplement labels, not because I have to, but because she actually needs to know. Her phone stays in her pocket. Mine stays face-down. The storm rages outside, but we're in here talking about her dad's health, about school stress, about how much it sucks to feel like you're performing for an audience that doesn't actually care.

When she leaves, she turns back. "Hey, you coming to Taylor's?"

"Nah," I say, and actually mean it. "I'm good."

My phone buzzes. I don't check it. Some nights, the lightning isn't something to be scared of. Sometimes it just illuminates what you were too distracted to see.