The Wellness of Empty Things

The vitamin organizer sat on the marble countertop, a perfect little pharmacy of my carefully curated life. Monday through Sunday, each compartment filled with promises of better skin, sharper focus, deeper sleep. I swallowed them dry, like I did most things these days.

Outside, my neighbor's cat—some ragged thing named Sir Purrcival—sat on the fence, watching me with what I swear was judgment. I'd started leaving treats for it last month. A small rebellion against the sterile perfection David and I had spent seven years building. Our life was a show home where no one actually lived.

"Running late again," David called from the bedroom, muffled. He was always running lately. Running to the gym, running to work, running those extra miles on weekends while I counted macros and scheduled Pilates.

I grabbed the wide-brimmed hat from the hooks by the door—not the elegant fascinator I'd worn to his company gala last month, but the straw one I'd bought on impulse. The one that made me look like someone who might take an impromptu road trip. Someone who hadn't spent the last half-decade becoming a very expensive version of herself.

"Enjoy your run," I told him, and something in my voice must have shifted because he paused in the doorway.

"Emma? You okay?"

"Fine. Just forgot my vitamin D. Again."

He nodded, already looking away, already gone. David didn't forget things. David didn't forget anything, which was why he'd forgotten to delete the message on his Apple Watch two weeks ago, the one that popped up while we were having dinner with his mother: "Can't wait for Thursday. Same hotel?"

Thursday was when he did his long runs.

The cat meowed from the fence as I walked out. I didn't head toward the subway. I walked toward the park instead, thumbing the vitamin bottle in my pocket, thinking about all the ways we try to supplement what's already gone.

Sir Purrcival followed me for three blocks before disappearing down an alley. A free thing, in a free world, doing whatever the hell cats do when no one's watching.

I kept walking. I was forty-five minutes late for work. I was wearing a hat that didn't match my blazer. And for the first time in years, I wasn't running toward anything, or away from anything. I was just walking, one foot in front of the other, finally, actually, well.