The Vitamin Bear Protocol

My best friend Sierra moved to Portland three months ago, and somewhere between FaceTime calls and cancelled plans, my brother Jay transformed into a human **bear**. Not the cute cuddly kind—the hibernation, growling-at-anyone-who-enters-his-room variety. Mom said it's just senior year stress. I said it felt like living with a grudge monster who stole my brother's face.

The first week of sophomore year, I started taking those neon **vitamin** gummies shaped like dinosaurs. Not because I believed they'd fix anything, but because crushing them between my teeth felt satisfying. Like I was chewing up all the awkward moments in the hallway when people I used to know looked past me. Or when my lab partner accidentally called me "Sierra" and then spent the rest of the period avoiding my eyes.

"You need to get out more," Mom said, sliding a bowl of cut fruit across the counter. "Go find something that's yours."

That Friday, I found a **cat** behind the dumpster at the 7-Eleven. Not kitten-cute, but battle-scarred and giving zero vibes. She looked at me like she knew exactly how pathetic I was, standing there with my Vitamin D gummies in one pocket and no plans on a Friday night. I named her Nova, because she radiated that particular energy of having seen too much and being completely over it.

I started visiting Nova daily. Sometimes I brought her the good treats. Sometimes I just sat on the curb and complained about geometry teachers who forgot my name two seconds after roll call. Nova listened with her whole face, unimpressed but present.

Then Jay came out of hibernation. Actually walked into the kitchen and made toast. I was sitting there, staring at my vitamin gummies like they held the meaning of life.

"You know," Jay said, butter spreading rhythmically, "those things are basically candy. You're not gonna fix anything with dinosaur-shaped anything."

I stared at him. He hadn't said more than five words to me since August.

"I know," I said. "They're for emotional support."

He snorted. Almost smiled. "Same."

The next day, I brought Jay to meet Nova. We sat on the curb behind the 7-Eleven while Nova judged us from her usual spot on the dumpster edge. Jay told me about college applications. I told him about missing Sierra. Nova purred like she'd always known we'd figure this out—eventually, messily, but together.

"We should make this a thing," Jay said. "The vitamin protocol. Or whatever."

"The Vitamin Bear Protocol," I said. "Because we're both basically grumpy animals who need snacks."

He actually laughed. Nova continued to look unimpressed, but I swear she purred louder.

That night, Sierra called. "You sound different," she said. "Like, actually good for once."

"I started a cult," I told her. "Just me, my brother, and a judgmental cat behind the convenience store. We eat vitamin gummies and complain about life."

"Finally," she said. "You found your people."

I thought about that—about how finding your people doesn't always look like you expect. Sometimes it's your brother emerging from his cave. Sometimes it's a stray cat who tolerates your presence. Sometimes it's just a Tuesday afternoon sitting on a curb, eating dinosaur-shaped emotional support, and realizing that maybe—just maybe—you're gonna be okay.

Nova head-butted my ankle. Jay cracked a joke that was actually funny. And somewhere three states away, Sierra was probably proud of me for finally getting it together. The vitamin gummies still didn't fix anything. But that wasn't really the point anymore.