The Wellness Regime

Elara arranged the supplements on the kitchen counter in neat rows. Vitamin C, D3, B-complex, zinc, magnesium. She lined them up like soldiers preparing for battle. At forty-three, she'd become obsessed with the architecture of health, convinced that if she could just organize it properly, death would have to make an appointment.

Marcus watched from the doorway, running a hand through his hair. Dark, thick, still there — unlike his father, who'd gone bald at thirty-five. He was the lucky one. The genetic lottery winner.

"You're taking them again," Marcus said, not a question.

Elara didn't look up. "Dr. Chen says the new combination could help with the fatigue."

"The fatigue that might be caused by stress? Or" — his voice softened — "grief?"

She finally met his eyes. Hers were bloodshot from three sleepless nights. "My mother died at forty-four, Marcus. I have exactly seven months to figure out how not to."

He crossed the room, placed his hands on her shoulders. She was tense as wire. "Or you could just live."

"Don't." She pulled away. "Just don't."

That evening, she stood at the stove, sautéing spinach until it wilted into dark green ribbons. Her mother had loved spinach. Had sworn it kept her young, right up until the stroke took her at forty-four. Elara had hated it as a child, had refused to touch it. Now she ate it religiously, every day, as if consuming her mother's superstitions might somehow grant her different odds.

Marcus appeared behind her, pressing his chest against her back. His breath warmed her neck.

"Elara."

"I'm fine."

"You cut your hair."

She hadn't, but she'd wanted to. She'd stood in front of the mirror that morning, scissors in hand, imagining the liberation of shearing it all off. The weight gone, the vanity gone, the vulnerability of exposing her neck to the world.

"I'm thinking about it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired of carrying it. All of it."

He turned her around gently. The spinach sputtered forgotten in the pan.

"Your hair is beautiful, Elara. But that's not why you should keep it. And it's not why you should cut it."

"Then why?"

"Because it's yours." He kissed her forehead. "Because you're still here."

She began to cry, quietly, the way women learn to cry so they don't frighten anyone. For the first time in seven months, she let herself imagine not her mother's death but her own life — whatever remained of it, however long or short, undefined by numbers on bottles or vegetables on plates.

The spinach burned. Neither of them moved to turn off the stove.