The Vitamin of Regret

Maya watched the neon sign flicker above the bar, her phone face-down on the table. Another notification from him—her husband—asking if she'd picked up the prenatal vitamins. The request landed like a small stone in her stomach.

She ran her palm across her face, feeling the fine lines that had deepened over three years of trying. The fertility doctor had said it could happen anytime, or never. That was the cruelty of maybe.

"You look tired, Maya."

She looked up. Ethan. Her college friend, her almost-lover, the one who'd moved to San Francisco when she'd chosen to stay. His hair was different now—shorter, graying at the temples. He'd aged beautifully.

"It's been a long week," she said.

He ordered another round. Their knees brushed under the table, electric and familiar. They talked about everything except what mattered: the years of silence, the what-ifs, the way his eyes had lingered on her at their reunion dinner.

Her iPhone buzzed again. She ignored it.

"Are you happy?" Ethan asked, not looking at her.

Maya swallowed her drink. "I don't know what happy means anymore."

His hand found hers across the table. His palm was warm, calloused. She didn't pull away.

"I could make you happy," he said quietly.

The air between them thickened. This was the moment—the choice point. She could lean in, let herself have this. Or she could finish her drink, go home to the vitamins and the husband who loved her, the life they'd built on grief and persistence.

She pulled her hand back. "No, Ethan. You couldn't."

He nodded, understanding passing between them like smoke.

"I know," he said. "But I had to ask."

She left him there, walked out into the humid night. Her phone showed seven missed calls. She called back, saying she'd be home soon. Some choices aren't about happiness. They're about what you can live with.