The Vitamin Friend

Maya stood on Sarah's doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine she'd brought as a peace offering. Three years of radio silence, and now this—a reunion invitation that felt less like warmth and more like obligation.

Sarah opened the door, thinner than Maya remembered. Her face had that pulled-taut quality that came from expensive skincare and deliberate deprivation. Behind her, Barnaby—an ancient golden retriever with cloudy eyes—thumped his tail against the hardwood floor.

"You came," Sarah said, not quite meeting Maya's eyes.

"Of course I came."

Inside, the apartment smelled of lemon cleaner and something medicinal. Sarah led her to the kitchen, where the counter was organized with military precision: rows of supplements in amber bottles, a precise constellation of health.

"Do you still want this?" Maya held up the wine.

Sarah winced. "I don't really drink anymore. The sugar... it's inflammatory."

"Right. Inflammatory." Maya set the bottle on the counter, feeling foolish. "How's work?"

"Good. Busy." Sarah reached for a canister of powder. "Do you want a vitamin shot? I make this blend myself—turmeric, ginger, some medicinal mushrooms."

"Sure. Why not."

As Sarah measured and mixed, Maya watched her. This wasn't the Sarah she'd known—the one who'd stay up until 3am eating takeout and laughing until they cried, who'd make terrible decisions and call them adventures. This Sarah was optimized, efficient, radically self-improved. And somewhere along the way, Maya had been left behind.

"What about Barnaby?" Maya nodded toward the dog, who'd settled into a reluctant circle on the rug. "Does he get vitamins too?"

"Oh, absolutely. His joint supplement is pharmaceutical grade." Sarah smiled, finally looking at Maya. "He's twelve now. I'm trying to give us both more time."

The words hung between them. More time. As if time were something you could bargain for, something you could earn through discipline and devotion.

Sarah pressed a small glass of amber liquid into Maya's hand. "Cheers?"

They drank. The shot burned going down—sharp, earthy, strangely alive.

"It's good," Maya admitted.

"I've been reading about epigenetics," Sarah said. "How we can change which genes express themselves. How we're not really destined to become our parents."

"Is that what this is about? Your mom?"

Sarah's mother had died at fifty-three, the same age Sarah was now. Breast cancer, discovered too late.

"Partly," Sarah said quietly. "But mostly... I just realized I wasn't taking care of myself. Not really. And I wanted to see what it would feel like to actually try."

Barnaby whined from the floor, and Sarah crouched down to stroke his ears. The tenderness in her face undid something in Maya's chest.

"I missed you," Maya said. "Even if you are full of shit about the wine."

Sarah laughed, and for a moment, the old Sarah flickered behind the new one—bright and irreverent and alive. "I missed you too. Stay for dinner? I promise to make something that's actually food."

"Only if Barnaby gets the good treats."

"Deal."

And as Sarah turned back to the counter, her vitamins glinting in the afternoon light like small, amber prayers, Maya thought about time, and friendship, and all the ways we try to save each other.