Vitamin Z

The papaya sat uneaten on Elena's desk, its vibrant orange flesh mocking her fluorescent-lit existence. Three years at Vitality Corp and she'd become proficient at marketing hope in capsule form. Today she was drafting copy for their new Zombie Defense supplement—ironic, given she'd been running on autopilot since the merger.

Her phone buzzed. David, the senior VP, had invited her to the company retreat in Bali. Everyone knew what that meant. His palm had lingered on her lower back at last quarter's meeting, fingers pressing into her spine like a brand.

"You need this, Elena," he'd whispered. "The vitamin D alone will be worth it."

She stared at the papaya, its black seeds glistening like accusations. Outside her window, palm trees lined the corporate park, their fronds drooping in the Atlanta heat. She wondered if the trees felt as trapped as she did—rooted in manufactured soil, expected to perform.

The retreat email promised "transformation through wellness." Elena suspected David's version of transformation involved room service and whispered invitations. She was thirty-three, exhausted, and suddenly, violently tired of being the smart one who always said no.

Her phone showed David's reply: "First flight's Sunday. Book it, El."

Elena picked up the papaya, weighty in her hand. She sliced it open, the juice staining her fingers. As she ate, standing at her desk with corporate lights humming above, she made her choice.

She sent the email: "I won't be at the retreat. Or afterward."

Then she packed her bag, left her keycard on the papaya-stained desk, and walked out into the sunlight, finally running toward something real.