The Vitamins We Swallow

David stood before the mirror at 5 AM, his hair thinning at the temples despite the expensive serum. At forty-two, he measured his life in incremental losses — his promotion to Marcus, his glow, the thick dark hair that once fell across his forehead.

The vitamin regimen sat on the counter: biotin, D3, the expensive proprietary blend his doctor promised would help. It helped. He hoped. He swallowed them dry, like a penance.

The bear had appeared on his third day of what the marketing team called a "wellness retreat" but what was really mandatory unpaid overtime in the mountains. He'd been hiking the perimeter trail, laptop bag heavy, when he saw it.

They stared at each other across fifty feet of pine needles and morning mist. The bear's coat was matted, patchy, aging. It moved with the slow dignity of things that have survived too many winters. David had expected fear, but what came was recognition.

He thought about Sarah leaving six months ago. Not because he'd lost his hair or his edge, but because he'd stopped being present. He'd been quantifying his worth in vitamins and metrics, forgetting how to be human in a body that would eventually fail.

The bear turned and lumbered away, showing no interest in him whatsoever. David stood there as his phone buzzed with urgent emails, then sat on a fallen log and watched the sunlight move through the trees. He took one vitamin from his pocket and examined it — a tiny amber capsule containing everything he was afraid to face.

He buried it in the dirt instead.