Water Soluble

The vitamin D pills sat on her kitchen counter like tiny accusations. Three years since the diagnosis, still she couldn't remember to take them without leaving them in plain sight.

"You look tired, Maya."

The cat wound between her legs, purring insistently. Shadow had belonged to David, and somehow, in the division of their shared life, Maya had ended up with the apartment, the cat, and the crushing realization that her best friend—the person who knew her coffee order and her deepest fears—had been sleeping with her husband.

"I'm fine, Sarah. Just working a lot."

Sarah's eyes softened with that familiar concern. The same concern she'd shown when Maya's mother died, when David left, when the specialists delivered their verdict about her liver function. Sarah, whose husband was David's best friend. The geometry of their friendship had become a Möbius strip of betrayal and reluctant forgiveness.

"I brought you something." Sarah placed a jar on the counter—homemade bone broth, rich and gelatinous. "My grandmother's recipe. It's supposed to be good for healing."

Maya's throat tightened. She reached for the water glass, hands trembling slightly. The liquid spilled over her fingers, cool and unforgiving.

"You don't have to keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Being nice. Being my friend. You chose him. I understand. I don't blame you. But this... this charity thing. It's too much."

Shadow jumped onto the counter, nearly knocking the vitamin bottle into the spilled water. Both women reached for it simultaneously, hands brushing against each other—warm skin, electric with remembered intimacy of a dozen girls' nights, wedding planning sessions, drunken confessions.

"David was wrong, Sarah."

Maya froze. The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a car alarm blared.

"What?"

"David. When he said you and I were growing apart. When he said you'd understand. I told him he was full of shit." Sarah's voice cracked. "I haven't spoken to him in six months, Maya. Not since I found out."

The vitamin bottle sat between them, pills rattling inside like dry rain. Maya looked at Sarah—really looked at her—and saw the exhaustion, the same hollowed-out quality she felt in her own mirror every morning.

"But you're married to his best friend."

"And my husband chose David. Unlike you, I believed him." Sarah laughed bitterly. "Until I found the texts. Now I'm sleeping in the guest room, wondering which parts of my marriage were real and which were just... convenient."

Shadow meowed, breaking the heavy silence. Maya righted the water glass, then picked up the vitamin bottle.

"You want to split one?" she asked. "Revenge is supposed to be good for the immune system."

Sarah's laugh this time was genuine, surprised out of her. "I think that's technically not what vitamin D does."

"No?" Maya smiled for what felt like the first time in months. "Then what's the point of being alive if we can't invent new uses for things?"

She swallowed a pill dry, then handed Sarah the water glass. Their fingers touched again, and this time, neither pulled away. Outside, rain began to fall, water washing over a city full of people making terrible choices and necessary betrayals and, occasionally, choosing to be wounded together rather than whole alone.