The Vitamin Pyramid Scheme

Maya's mom slid the orange bottle across the kitchen counter like it was contraband. "Your dad says these vitamins will help you focus. You've been spacing out a lot lately." Maya rolled her eyes so hard it actually hurt. She wasn't spacing out—she was just existing as a fifteen-year-old girl whose brain had too many tabs open. But explaining that to her parents was like trying to teach her cat, Nacho, algebra.

That same week, Jessica—the girl who sat three rows back in homeroom and somehow made everything look effortless—slid into the seat next to Maya at lunch. "Hey, so I'm starting this wellness business," Jessica said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "It's not like a JOB-job. More of a, you know, opportunity." She pulled out a catalog that looked suspiciously like a pyramid scheme in trendy packaging. "You seem chill. Thought you might want in on the ground floor."

Maya's goldfish, Bubbles, swam in endless circles in its bowl on her nightstand, living its best clueless life. Sometimes Maya felt like Bubbles—just swimming around the same glass rectangle while everyone else seemed to be building something real. Jessica's "opportunity" felt like a trap, but also like the first time anyone popular had noticed her since seventh grade.

"Let me think about it," Maya said, already knowing she wouldn't. That night, she watched Nacho perch on the edge of Bubbles' bowl, tail twitching with calculated menace. The fish swam on, completely unaware. Maya realized something: Nacho wasn't actually going to eat Bubbles. The cat just liked the drama of almost doing it.

Some people built pyramids to climb. Some people bought vitamins they didn't need because they were scared of being less than enough. And some people—people like Maya—just needed to stop waiting for Jessica or anyone else to validate them.

She texted Jessica: nah i'm good. Then she dumped the vitamins in the trash when her mom wasn't looking. Some things you had to supplement yourself.