What We Ate Before the Light

The vitamin bottles lined her windowsill like soldiers in formation — Vitamin D3, K2, B12, a whole alphabet of promised wellness. Maya stood before them, her face illuminated by the ring light she'd installed in what used to be her dining room, explaining bioavailability to her phone with rehearsed enthusiasm.

I watched from the doorway, the takeout container heavy in my hand. Six years since we'd spoken, since her wedding to that chiropractor with the multi-level marketing scheme. Since she'd posted that Facebook thread about how some friendships were "toxic" and "low-vibrational."

"You're just in time!" she called, spotting me. Her teeth were impossibly white. "I was just telling everyone about my new green supplement. It's got spirulina, chlorella —"

"Spinach," I said, and the word felt like a stone dropping into still water. "You used to hate spinach."

She paused, the smile flickering. In that microsecond, I saw the girl who'd sat on my apartment floor in 2018, crying because her mother had cancer, eating cold spinach salad from a plastic container because it was the only thing in my fridge. We were poor and scared and so alive. We'd promised each other we'd never become the kind of people who bought happiness in pill form.

"I've evolved," she said, but her voice was thin. "People change, Sarah. You're still doing that corporate law thing? That's got to be so draining. You should try my adrenal support blend."

The ring light glowed. She was selling something, always selling something now. Her friendship had become transactional — a lead, a conversion, a downline in the pyramid scheme her life had become.

I set the takeout on the counter. Old habits die screaming. "I brought Thai," I said. "There's a green curry with —"

"I can't eat that," she cut in, already turning back to her phone. "Nightshades cause inflammation. Don't you follow the research?"

I stood there as she resumed her livestream, talking to strangers about health while her real life withered. All those vitamins, and she'd never looked less nourished. The spinach we'd shared — messy, imperfect, real — had sustained us more than any capsule ever could.

I left the food on the counter. Some gaps don't need filling. Some deficiencies aren't physical at all.