Vitamin Z

The morning sun cut through my bedroom blinds like a judgment, and I already knew I'd be late again. Three years out of college, and I'd become exactly what we used to joke about: a corporate zombie, moving through days on autopilot, fueled by caffeine and the creeping certainty that I'd already lived my best years without noticing.

I swallowed my morning fistful of supplements—vitamin D for the windowless office, B-complex for energy I never felt, magnesium for the anxiety that woke me at 3 AM. The routine was the only thing that felt like mine anymore, this careful calibration of a body I'd stopped listening to years ago.

Then came the text from Elena: *Palm Court. Noon. Don't bail.*

The Palm Court was where we'd toasted graduation, five years ago, drunk on expensive champagne and the terrifying certainty of our own potential. Now it was just another hotel restaurant where tech bros conducted power lunches beneath ceiling fans that spun lazily, mocking us all.

She was already there when I arrived, dressed in linen I couldn't afford, glowing with that serenity of people who'd made choices that hurt at first. An orange sat on the table between us, vivid and impossible against the white tablecloth like a small, bright rebellion.

'You're twenty minutes late,' she said, but she was smiling with that warmth she'd always had, even when we were strangers.

'The zombie apocalypse continues,' I said, sinking into the chair. 'What brings you back to the hellscape?'

'Closing things out.' Elena peeled the orange, the scent sharp and suddenly present against the restaurant's filtered air. 'Sold my stake in the studio. Moving to Tulum next month to run my uncle's retreat center.'

'Tulum.' The word sat heavy in my throat. 'You're really leaving everything.'

'Some things.' She separated a segment and held it out to me. 'Not everything. Not my friends.'

I took it, the juice shocking on my tongue—real and immediate and nothing like the carefully measured existence I'd been living. 'Remember sophomore year? You said you'd rather fail at something you loved than succeed at something you hated.'

'We were kids, El. We didn't know what real life cost.'

Her expression softened, something like pity in it. 'I think real life costs exactly what we're willing to pay for it.' She leaned forward. 'I need someone to handle the books. It's not corporate money, but there's a cottage. And ocean. And the kind of quiet where you can actually hear yourself think.'

Outside the window, I could see palm fronds moving in the wind, and for a moment I could smell salt air instead of exhaust, feel possibility instead of dread.

The zombie inside me stirred, hungry for something it hadn't known it was missing.

'Tell me about the cottage,' I said.