The Vitamin Deficiency

The text had been sitting unread for three weeks. 'You still playing padel? — Mark'

Sarah stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the delete button. Three months of radio silence since his affair with Elena surfaced, and now he wanted to play padel. As if a glass backboard and a foam ball could erase eight years of betrayal.

She threw the phone onto the counter and opened the fridge. Stared at the wilted spinach, at the expiration date on the vitamin D bottle that mocked her from the door shelf. The doctor's words echoed: 'Your levels are critically low, Sarah. You're not absorbing anything.'

Deficient. That was the word that had been following her around. Deficient in trust. Deficient in judgment. Deficient in the one thing she thought she'd mastered: knowing who people really were.

Her phone pinged again. 'Court reserved for Thursday. 7 PM. Say yes.'

Sarah's fingers moved before her brain could intervene. 'Fine.'

Thursday arrived with rain that sheets against her windshield as she drove to the club. The familiar smell of rubber and artificial turf hit her when she pushed through the doors. There he was, stretching in those ridiculous neon shorts, looking like nothing had changed.

'You're late,' he said, not smiling.

'Some things don't change.'

They played in silence for the first set. The rhythm of their games returned instantly — Sarah's defensive returns against Mark's aggressive smashes. But now every ball felt like a weapon. Every rally carried the weight of unsaid things.

'I'm sorry,' he said, missing an easy volley. The ball bounced pathetically near his feet.

Sarah served, her entire body coiled tight. 'For what part?'

'All of it.' He looked at her, really looked at her. 'I was a coward.'

She caught his toss, her hand squeezing the foam ball. The doctor had told her to take her vitamins. To eat more spinach. To take care of herself. But nobody prescribed how to metabolize this.

'You were my best friend,' Sarah said, her voice cracking. 'I trusted you with everything.'

'I know. That's why it was so easy to betray you.'

The honesty knocked the wind out of her. Sarah stared at him — at the man who had held her hair back when she was sick, who had been there when her mother died, who had systematically hollowed out their friendship for years.

'Why are we here, Mark?' She tossed him the ball. 'Really?'

'Because I need you to know,' he said, catching it without looking. 'And because you're still my best friend.'

Sarah watched him walk to the baseline, watched the familiar way he adjusted his grip, the precise angle of his wrist. Some things, she realized, you could supplement and patch and treat. But some deficiencies never truly healed.

'Serve,' she called out. 'Just serve.'

The ball arced toward her, and Sarah swung. For the first time in months, she felt something real.