The Vitamin Supplemen

She stared at the prenatal vitamin on the counter—round, white, impossible to swallow without water. Three months of trying. Three months of Marc's texts saying "working late" while his iPhone sat charging on the nightstand, its screen lighting up with messages from someone named Sofia.

Padel. That was the excuse. Their Wednesday and Friday tradition, except lately Marc had been playing extra matches. Solo. Or so he'd said, dripping sweat after midnight showers, smelling of expensive body wash instead of his usual soap.

Running had been her escape—first five kilometers, then ten, then the half-marathon she'd signed up for on impulse. Each footfall a prayer. Each mile a reminder that her body could do what her marriage apparently couldn't: move forward.

The orange was the last straw. She'd been slicing one for breakfast when she found the receipt in his coat pocket. Two padel rackets. Not one. Two. And a reservation for a restaurant she'd been begging him to try since they moved to Barcelona.

She wasn't running from anything anymore. She was running toward something.

The vitamin went down the sink disposal. The iPhone—she left it on the counter. He could explain the texts, the receipts, the way he'd been sleeping with his back to her. Or he couldn't.

Either way, she'd already signed up for that marathon. Her legs felt strong. Her heart felt lighter than it had in months. The sun was coming up through the kitchen window, painting everything in shades of gold and burning orange.

Some stories don't end. They just change rhythm.