Water Soluble

Maya stood before the bathroom mirror, swallowing the handful of supplements with practiced precision. The **vitamin** D capsules were her latest addition—prescribed not by a doctor, but by an influencer who swore they cured existential dread. At forty-two, she'd accumulated quite the collection: B-complex for stress, magnesium for sleep, iron for fatigue. Each pill a tiny promise that tomorrow she'd feel more like herself.

The **cat** appeared in her courtyard three weeks ago—a scrawny, one-eyed tom with fur the color of dirty dishwater. Maya had named him Sisyphus because he kept returning, no matter how many times she shooed him away. This morning, though, he sat motionless on her garden wall, watching her with his remaining eye as if awaiting something.

She opened the balcony door, expecting him to bolt. Instead, Sisyphus stepped inside, walked to her water bowl, and began to drink. The sound was surprisingly intimate—a rhythmic lapping that made Maya's own throat feel dry. She'd forgotten to have her morning **water**. Again.

"You're better at self-care than I am," she murmured.

Sisyphus finished drinking and looked at her. In that moment, Maya understood something the wellness industry had never mentioned: animals didn't need supplements or self-optimization. They simply existed. They drank when thirsty, slept when tired, loved when it felt right. Their lives weren't projects to be managed.

She swept the vitamin bottles into the trash—all thirty-seven of them. Then she filled a glass with tap water and drank deeply, feeling it hit her empty stomach. Sisyphus rubbed against her ankle, purring like a small engine of contentment.

That afternoon, she quit the job that had been slowly hollowing her out. She called her mother for the first time in six months. She ate an entire pizza without counting calories. And when Sisyphus curled up on her pillow that night, she didn't push him away.

Some things, she realized, were better left undissolved.