The vitamin jar sat empty on the counter

The vitamin jar sat empty on the counter, its orange lid staring back at him like an accusation. Gary smoothed his tie, staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. At 47, he'd started taking them—the D3, the B-complex, the omega-3 capsules that smelled like low tide. Supplements for a life that felt somehow deficient. Sarah called them his placebos, popping them into her mouth without water some mornings, laughing as she choked them down. That was six months ago. Before the promotion. Before the nights she started taking calls in the garage. He'd tried running—actual running, at 5 AM, through the sleeping suburban streets—anything to exhaust himself enough to sleep. To stop listening for her phone to buzz. Now he just drove. The baseball playoffs flickered across the television screen, commentators dissecting some pitcher's mechanics like they mattered. The cable package they'd upgraded to last Christmas, supposed to be something they'd enjoy together. He'd watched every game alone since September. The pitcher threw. The batter connected. Gary's phone vibrated. *'You coming home tonight?'* The house was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear the water heater clicking in the basement, could see where the basement had flooded twice during the spring rains—water damage they'd never quite fixed, board by board, room by room. Sarah had wanted to sell. He'd insisted they could make it work. They could fix anything. The vitamins were supposed to arrive today. Auto-shipped. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the text again. *'I need time,'* she'd written that morning. *'I can't do this anymore.'* The game went to commercial. Some ad for retirement planning, golden couples walking beaches at sunset. Gary stood and walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucet. Watched the water run and run, thinking about all the things he'd tried to supplement. The marriage. The career. The careful version of himself he'd been building for decades. The vitamins in the empty jar had never been enough either. Outside, rain started falling. He thought about the basement. About the boards they'd never replaced. About how water always found the cracks eventually, no matter how carefully you sealed them. He turned off the faucet. The house stayed quiet. He didn't text back.