Vitamin Fox

Emma found the vitamins on a Tuesday — generic orange bottles lined up like soldiers on his nightstand, each with a different letter stamped in white: D, B12, Omega-3. Next to them, a small black notebook she'd never noticed before.

She should have left it alone. That's what she told herself later, alone in their bed, the sheets cold on his side. But she opened it.

The first pages were mundane: grocery lists, work deadlines. Then came the entries dated October 3rd. Her breath caught. *Subject left apartment at 7:42 AM. Wore the blue coat. Coffee shop visit — no meetings. Returned empty-handed.*

It went on for weeks. Detailed observations of her movements, her moods, her phone calls. Tom had been spying on her. Her husband of eight years.

She confronted him that evening over takeout Thai. "Why?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "You've been different lately. Distant. I needed to know."

"So you hired someone?"

"No one. Just me. After work. Lunch breaks."

Emma thought about the vitamins then. How he'd started taking them last fall, talking about health, longevity, being his best self. The vitamins weren't for wellness — they were fuel. Fuel for double-life energy, for following her through city streets, for documenting her comings and goings like she was a mark.

"I felt like I was losing you," he said, voice cracking.

"You were," she said simply. "While you were busy watching me, you forgot to actually see me."

She left that night with a single suitcase. Three weeks later, in her new apartment with its mismatched furniture and hopeful plants, she saw a fox at the edge of the courtyard. All russet coat and sharp eyes, watching her through the glass. It moved with lithe purpose, wild and unapologetic.

Emma smiled. She'd started taking vitamins too — not the ones Tom had stockpiled, but something new. Iron. Zinc. Things that built strength from within.

The fox dipped its head once, acknowledgment between survivors, then disappeared into the night. Emma raised her glass of wine to the empty space where it had been. Someday soon, she'd stop looking over her shoulder. But not tonight. Tonight, she was the one doing the watching, and she liked what she saw.