Vitamin Z

The morning routine was automatic, which was the point.

Vitamin supplements lined her bathroom counter - D for mood, B for energy, magnesium for the anxiety that woke her at 3 AM. She swallowed them without water, a practiced performance of self-care.

Her hair had started falling out three months after the layoff. Clumps in the drain, strands on her pillow, a visual tally of stress. At thirty-seven, she'd hacked it all off herself in the bathroom mirror, leaving a jagged pixie that made strangers ask if she was undergoing treatment.

She wasn't. Just living through the slow erosion of expectations.

The cat, Lester, appeared at her sliding door most evenings - a ragged tom with one ear who'd decided she was his person. She'd started buying premium food, another expense she couldn't afford, in a year of careful budgeting. Some attachments chose you.

Tonight was the second date with Mark, who'd approached her at the unemployment office with a line about how they looked like the only ones not crying into paperwork. He'd smiled, and something in her chest had unlocked.

They were at a small Thai place on 4th. Mark was telling her about his daughter's zombie obsession - how the seven-year-old analyzed survival strategies and criticized his tactical choices during their pretend apocalypse drills.

"It's not about the zombies," Mark said, chopping his papaya salad with unnecessary focus. "It's about losing everything. The world ending. She's processing the divorce, I think. Through the undead."

Sarah's hand froze with her fork halfway to her mouth.

"Divorce," she repeated.

"Two years. It's better now. Most days." His eyes found hers, something raw in them. "You learn to build again. From scratch. Different foundation."

Sarah set down her fork. She thought of her vitamin collection, the way she measured doses of normalcy. The hair that was finally growing back, soft at her temples. Lester waiting at home, the one consistent thing.

"I was laid off eight months ago," she said. "I don't know who I am without the job."

Mark nodded, like this was information he'd already guessed, or simply didn't mind.

"We're all zombies sometimes," he said gently. "Moving through it. Waiting for the feeling to come back online."

He reached across the table and touched her wrist, lightly. A test.

"But it does," he said. "The feeling comes back."

Sarah exhaled. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent and alive. She thought about the papaya on her plate, bright as possibility. About Lester. About the way Mark was looking at her, as if she were already someone worth knowing.

"It's coming back," she said. And she was surprised to find it was true.