Vitamins and Voyeurism

Maya's phone buzzed, vibrating against the cold granite of the kitchen counter at 2 AM. Another email from her mother: 'Have you been taking your vitamin D supplements? Dark winter affects mood.' She'd started screenshotting the reminders instead of responding.

The iPhone illuminated her exhausted face in the microwave's reflection as she leaned over the sink, watching him sleep through the kitchen window. His apartment across the courtyard was dark, but she knew he was there—she'd watched him return from his shift at the hospital three hours ago, his white coat exchanged for that soft gray sweater.

They'd been whatever they were for seven months now. She'd memorized the patterns: how his dark hair curled when he forgot to get it cut, the way he left coffee mugs on his windowsill in ascending order of filth, the precise moment each evening when he'd pause to look at his own phone, thumb hovering over someone's contact.

Tonight, she couldn't sleep. The water in her glass trembled as her hand shook—a physical manifestation of everything she hadn't said. Should say. Their last encounter had been three days ago in the hospital supply closet where they'd both pretended to be looking for gloves while he pressed her against metal shelving units, his hair smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion.

She'd read somewhere that vitamin deficiencies could masquerade as heart problems. Palpitations, shortness of breath, that persistent ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your actual heart and everything to do with the way someone looked at you when they thought you weren't paying attention.

Maya turned off her phone and set it next to the vitamin bottle on her counter. Tomorrow she'd either tell him she wanted more, or she'd delete his number. But not tonight. Tonight, she watched his window until the first hint of dawn painted the sky gray, content for now to be the woman across the courtyard who knew exactly which window was his, and nothing more.