The Vitamins We Keep Taking

Maya stood at the kitchen counter at 7:14 PM, the same time she'd stood there every evening for three years. The plastic vitamin bottle clicked against the granite as she shook out two tablets — one for bone health, one for whatever 'wellness' meant anymore. The routine had survived everything: the promotion, the breakup, her mother's diagnosis. Some things refused to break.

Her iPhone lit up with Sarah's name for the fifth time that day. Maya let it go to voicemail, just like the last four calls. The messages had been the same: 'We need to talk about the apartment.' 'Please answer.' 'I'm coming over Saturday.' Simple sentences that carried the weight of unraveling lives.

The cat — Sarah's cat, technically, though Barnaby had slept at the foot of Maya's bed for six years — wound around her ankles, purring insistently. He needed dinner too. Another routine that hadn't gotten the memo about everything falling apart.

'Yeah, yeah,' Maya whispered, scooping food into his bowl. 'You don't care that she moved out two weeks ago and keeps calling like nothing happened. You just want your salmon pâté.' Barnaby purred harder, indifferent to human heartbreak.

Her building's pool was empty at this hour, the water still and reflecting the city lights. Maya slipped into the cold darkness, letting it swallow her whole. Swimming had always been her thinking time, but lately it was just about feeling something other than the hollow ache in her chest. The rhythmic stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe was like a meditation she couldn't achieve sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat.

Underwater, the muffled world made sense. No phone calls. No vitamins. No half-empty closets where Sarah's clothes used to hang. Just the resistance of water against skin, the clarity that came from oxygen deprivation.

She surfaced to find an older woman sitting on one of the lounge chairs, watching.

'You swim like you're trying to outpace something,' the woman said. Her hair was white, her face lined with decades of whatever life had handed her. 'I used to do that. Took me thirty years to figure out you can't.'

Maya tread water, heart pounding. 'What's the alternative?'

'Stop swimming for a minute,' the woman said. 'Let the water hold you up.' She stood up, adjusting her cardigan. 'Also — call her back. Whatever she did, whatever you did, the silence is worse than the truth.'

The woman walked away, leaving Maya alone with the lapping water and the sudden, crushing realization that she'd been holding her breath for months.

Back in her apartment, Barnaby was waiting by the door. Maya's iPhone showed seventeen missed calls. She picked it up, fingers trembling, and dialed back.

The vitamins sat on the counter, forgotten. Some routines were meant to be broken.