The Vitamin Thief

At 3 AM, Elena stood at the edge of her apartment complex's pool, clutching a bottle of B-complex vitamins she'd stolen from Julian's bedside table. She'd become something like a spy in her own marriage, gathering evidence of his withdrawal: the closed door of his home office, the texts from his lawyer about asset division, the way he'd stopped looking at her.

She'd been bearing his distance for months, each day heavier than the last. The vitamins were supposed to be preventative—Julian started taking them after his father's heart attack, as if health were something you could stockpile against inevitable loss.

A sphinx moth navigated the darkness above the pool, drawn to the reflected moonlight. Elena watched it, thinking about how she and Julian had become like creatures moving through different skies, sharing space but not trajectory.

She'd found the lawyer's texts six weeks ago. Julian had been planning his exit for months, treating their marriage like a failing business venture that required careful unwinding. He'd never given her the dignity of shared decision-making.

The pool's surface caught broken pieces of silver, reminding her of everything fractured between them. She opened the vitamin bottle and poured the pills into the water, watching them dissolve like all the things they'd promised each other: forever, honesty, love that survives change.

Julian was awake when she returned to their apartment, sitting at the kitchen table with his phone.

"You're up," he said, surprised.

She pulled out the folder with his lawyer's name on the top page. "You could have told me. I deserved that much."

"Elena, please—"

"I would have helped you," she said. "If you'd told me you were unhappy, I would have helped figure it out. But you decided I couldn't handle the truth."

He reached for her hand. She pulled away.

"You made me a spy in my own marriage, Julian. You made me bear the weight of your decisions alone."

The sphinx moth appeared at the window, beating against the glass. She would never look at moths the same way again—creatures drawn to flames they can't survive, beautiful in their fatal attraction.

"I'm done with your vitamins," she said. "I'm done with your prevention strategies."

She walked to the bedroom to pack. Julian's phone lit up with another message from his lawyer.

"You bear the weight of that choice," she said from the doorway. "You bear it alone."

The sphinx moth was gone when she stepped into the hallway. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.