The Wellness Protocol

David stood before the bathroom mirror at 5:47 AM, watching the grey multiply through his hair like invasive weeds. At forty-three, he'd become obsessive about the vitamin regimen—D3 for mood, B-complex for energy, biotin for the thinning strands that refused to stop their retreat. His wife, Elena, still slept in their bedroom, though they'd been occupying separate emotional continents for months.

He filled a glass with water from the filtered tap, watching the bubbles rise and burst. The bull of a man at the gym—Marcus, the personal trainer with teeth too white to be natural—had recommended the protocol. "Invest in yourself, Dave. You're worth it." The words echoed now, hollow and tinny.

Running was supposed to fix everything. The endorphins, the clarity, the sense of accomplishment. Instead, David found himself running in circles, literally and otherwise, his expensive sneakers hitting the pavement while his marriage dissolved in silence, his career stagnated, and his father faded away in a hospice three states away.

This morning, as he swallowed his daily fistful of supplements, David noticed Elena's overnight bag gone from the hallway. Not hidden—gone. On the kitchen counter, a note in her distinctive cursive: "I can't do this anymore. Not with us, not with myself."

He set the water glass down. His hands didn't shake. Outside, the first light of dawn painted the sky in apocalyptic oranges. David realized, with sudden crystalline clarity, that he'd been bullshitting himself for years about what mattered. The vitamins, the running, the performance of wellness—all of it a carefully constructed shield against the simple terrifying truth: he'd forgotten how to be happy, and somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how to love.

He sat at the kitchen table in the gathering light and did something he hadn't done in years. He cried.