The Vitamin Gummy Incident

Okay, so let's talk about how my entire social life collapsed over a vitamin gummy.

It started with Marcus—that friend who'd been my person since seventh grade, the one who knew my order at Starbucks, who I could text at 3 AM when my parents were fighting again. We were solid. Or I thought we were.

But then sophomore year hit, and suddenly Marcus got hot. Like, actually hot. And he joined cross country, and he started hanging with the popular crowd, and I was still just... me. The girl who forgot to take her vitamins unless her mom literally texted her five times.

So one day, I'm dogsitting for my aunt's Golden Retriever, Buster—this 80-pound fluffball who thinks he's a lap dog—and Marcus shows up with Emma, the junior varsity cheerleader with perfect hair and a laugh that sounds like wind chimes.

They want to hang out. At my house. While I'm covered in dog hair and my ponytail is basically falling apart.

"You're so good with animals," Emma says, smiling like she actually means it. "It's really... wholesome."

Wholesome. The word hangs there like a wet sock. Marcus used to call me chaotic, in a good way. Now I'm wholesome.

Buster chooses that exact moment to knock over the open bottle of vitamins on the counter. Gummy vitamins everywhere. And I'm on the floor, scrambling to pick them up before Buster decides they're treats, and I can feel Marcus and Emma watching me like I'm some kind of exotic creature.

"You know," Marcus says, and his voice has that careful tone he uses with his grandmother, "you don't have to take those. My mom says they're basically candy."

And that's when it hits me—Marcus didn't just change. He decided who he wants to be, and that person isn't really my person anymore. He's trying to be someone who doesn't have friends like me. Friends who bear the weight of his old self, the one who ate Takis in bed and watched bad horror movies and didn't care about being cool.

Buster licks my face, his whole body wagging like this is the best moment ever. And I realize: this dog, covered in vitamin dust and pure joy, has it figured out. You don't have to perform for anyone.

"Actually," I say, standing up with the bottle and a handful of gummies, "I like them. They're cherry flavor."

Emma looks confused. Marcus looks disappointed. But I bear it, standing there in my oversized sweatshirt, knowing some friendships aren't meant to survive growing up. And that's okay.

Buster barks, and for the first time all day, I don't feel like performing. I just feel like me.