Vitamins in the Bathwater

The prenatal vitamins stared back from the counter—2000 DHA, extra folic acid, pink promises in a white bottle. Elena had bought them three months ago, during that brief, shimmering window when she and Julian discussed baby names. Now Julian was gone, and she was thirty-five with a cabinet full of useless hope.

She stepped into the bathtub, hot water rising to her waist, then her chest. The bathroom mirror still showed her hair—dark, thick, halfway down her back—and she hated it. Hated that he'd loved running his fingers through it. Hated that it felt like hers alone for the first time in years.

Her phone buzzed on the sink. Her sister, again. 'You need to eat something.' 'Come over.' 'Don't stay in that apartment.' Elena let the water swallow the sound.

She'd started losing weight after he left. Not on purpose—just forgot, really. Food seemed optional. The vitamins were the only things she remembered, her fingers automatically shaking two into her palm each morning. Some ritual, some performance of care she couldn't quit.

The bathroom door creaked.

Marcus, her neighbor. He'd let himself in with the spare key she'd given him last year for emergencies. He stood in the doorway, carrying a carton of soup.

"I'm not decent," she said, though the water covered everything.

"I brought pho," Marcus said, not turning away. "Your sister called me. She's worried."

"I'm fine."

"You're in a bathtub with your vitamins on the sink and you haven't left your apartment in four days. That's not fine, Elena. That's drowning."

She looked at him—really looked. Marcus, who'd lived next door for three years. Who she'd exchanged pleasantries with, borrowed sugar from, nothing more. His hair was graying at the temples. His eyes were kind and tired.

"He left me," she said, the words finally coming. "Just... packed his things and left."

"I know," Marcus said softly. "I heard you crying that night."

"Why didn't you knock?"

"Because sometimes grief needs witnesses, and sometimes it needs privacy. I thought you deserved the choice."

The water cooled around her. Something broke open in her chest.

"Stay," she said. "Please. Just... sit."

He pulled the toilet lid down and sat. "I'm not going anywhere."

And in the steam of that small bathroom, something new began to grow—not replacing what she'd lost, but sharing space with it. Not a replacement. A beginning.