Supplements
Ethan’s apartment had never been the kind of place that told a story.
It was functional. A couch that came with the unit, a dining table that could double as a work desk, curtains chosen because they were cheap and the colour was neutral enough to disappear into the background. The only objects with any emotional weight were the ones that arrived by accident–an old photo from university stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cartoon fish, a mug from a company event he didn’t remember attending, a jacket he kept meaning to donate but never did.
So when Ethan stood in the middle of his living room on Saturday morning and realised he was surrounded by items that suddenly felt suspicious, his first instinct was anger.
Not at anyone.
At himself.
Because he didn’t want to live like this.
He didn’t want to wake up thinking about his own chest, about his hair, about his skin, about the way his emotions had become weather. He didn’t want to stare at a pantry shelf and wonder whether his breakfast was a problem. He didn’t want to look at the razor on his sink as if it had personally betrayed him.
He wanted the old predictability back.
He wanted the simple cause-and-effect of life: if something was wrong, you found the source, you fixed it, you moved on.
That was how his mind worked.
That was how he survived.
He had booked the doctor’s appointment on Clara’s couch two days ago, his thumb pressing confirm with a sense of grim finality. The slot was next Thursday. It was close enough to feel real and far enough to be unbearable.
Until then, his mind would do what it always did when faced with uncertainty.
It would build theories.
It would seek culprits.
It would look for something to blame that wasn’t himself.
Ethan walked into his kitchen and opened the cabinet above the fridge.
There they were.
Protein powder.
Vitamin gummies he hadn’t finished.
A pre-workout tub he’d bought months ago in a burst of optimism.
A half-used bottle of magnesium that Maya once recommended during a late-night conversation about burnout.
He stared at the collection like it was a lineup.
It was ridiculous, of course. These were normal things. People took supplements. People ate protein. People tried, clumsily, to hack their own bodies into cooperating.
But Ethan couldn’t stop thinking about the doctor’s questions that hadn’t been asked yet.
He could already hear them.
What are you taking?
Any new medications?
Any supplements?
The questions felt accusatory even in his imagination.
Ethan reached up and pulled everything down onto the counter.
The tubs and bottles clunked against the marble with small, heavy sounds.
He lined them up.
Then he opened each one and sniffed like that would reveal a secret.
Protein powder smelled like chocolate.
Pre-workout smelled like artificial fruit and regret.
Vitamins smelled like sugar.
Nothing smelled like danger.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured to himself, as if announcing a plan could keep panic from slipping in. “We’re doing this properly.”
It was the same phrase Clara used.
The thought irritated him.
He grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and began tossing things in.
The pre-workout first.
Then the protein powder.
Then the gummies.
Then the magnesium.
Then anything that had an ingredient list long enough to feel like a warning.
He moved with quick efficiency, as if the act of removing items could remove symptoms.
When he finished, the counter looked bare.
Cleaner.
Safer.
His chest still ached faintly beneath his shirt.
His jaw was still too smooth.
His hair still fell into his eyes when he looked down.
Ethan stared at the trash bag.
He felt no relief.
He only felt foolish.
Because the problem wasn’t in the cabinet.
The problem was in his body.
He showered and dressed, avoiding the mirror more than he should have. He put on another one of the soft shirts Clara had insisted on buying. He hated that he reached for it automatically now.
The fabric slid over his chest without scraping.
It reduced the tenderness to a dull throb instead of a sharp reminder.
Ethan tried not to read meaning into that.
He left his apartment and walked to the nearest supermarket.
If he was doing this properly, he told himself, he needed to control his diet too. Clean eating. Fewer variables. Less caffeine. Less junk.
The phrase fewer variables made him feel like an engineer in a lab.
He didn’t like that he had become a subject.
In the supermarket aisle, he stared at bottled water as if choosing the wrong brand might trigger another breakdown.
He picked one.
He wandered through the produce section, grabbing vegetables he knew how to cook and proteins he could portion neatly. His basket filled with items that looked responsible: chicken breast, spinach, eggs, oats.
He paused at the tea section.
Rows of boxes in soft colours lined the shelves: chamomile, peppermint, “sleep,” “detox,” “calm.”
Ethan stood there longer than necessary.
He could smell Clara’s apartment in his mind–tea steam and garlic, clean tile and soft fabric. He could feel the mug’s warmth in his palms. He could hear Clara’s voice: Finish it. It’ll help you sleep.
His chest tightened.
He turned away from the tea.
At the checkout, he placed his groceries on the conveyor belt and watched them slide forward.
The cashier scanned items without looking up.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The rhythm was comforting.
Until the cashier scanned the chicken and asked, “Would you like a receipt?”
Ethan blinked.
For a moment, he saw Clara at the mall counter, smiling, saying yes as if it were obvious. Because I keep them. You know this.
Ethan shook himself.
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself.
The cashier printed the receipt and handed it over.
Ethan stared at it.
Paper.
Numbers.
Proof.
He folded it and slipped it into his wallet with a sense of irrational seriousness.
He carried his groceries home and cooked lunch the way he used to cook in university: quickly, without artistry, focused on function.
As he ate, he waited to feel different.
He didn’t.
His skin still felt too smooth against the inside of his sleeves.
His hair still brushed his forehead.
His chest still held that faint, tender awareness, like a bruise that was alive.
He set his fork down.
He stared at the wall.
The waiting was the worst part.
Clara texted him in the afternoon.
How are you feeling today?
Ethan stared at the message.
He typed Fine, then deleted it.
He typed Not great, then deleted it.
He settled on something that sounded reasonable.
Still weird. I’m trying to reduce variables.
The dots appeared almost immediately.
Good, Clara replied. Proud of you.
The words tightened something in Ethan’s chest.
Proud.
Like he was a child who had cleaned his room.
He told himself she meant it lovingly.
I threw out supplements, Ethan typed.
Another quick response.
That’s smart. A lot of those things are rubbish anyway. Did you eat?
Ethan stared.
There it was again. Feeding. Checking. Managing.
He typed: Yes. Cooked.
Good, Clara replied. Come over tonight. I’ll make you something clean. Also–don’t drink coffee today. It makes you anxious.
Ethan exhaled through his nose.
He stared at his phone.
He wanted to reply with something sarcastic.
Instead, he typed: Okay.
The ease of that agreement irritated him.
He threw his phone onto the couch and stood.
He tried to distract himself by cleaning.
He vacuumed. He wiped counters. He scrubbed the bathroom sink as if the razor would reappear out of spite.
Nothing changed.
At six, he stood in front of the mirror despite himself.
He examined his face.
The smoothness was undeniable.
The pores looked smaller. The skin looked calmer.
There was no new jawline. No miraculous transformation.
Just a subtle polishing that made him look like someone who put effort into his appearance.
Ethan’s mouth tightened.
He lifted his hand to his jaw.
No stubble.
He lowered his hand.
He was tired of touching his own face like it was a stranger.
He left for Clara’s.
Clara’s apartment greeted him with warmth and order.
She opened the door before he knocked, as if she had been watching the peephole.
“Hey,” she said, smiling.
Ethan stepped inside.
Her hands went to his hair as she kissed his cheek, fingers smoothing it back with a familiar ease.
Ethan held still.
“You used the conditioner,” Clara observed.
Ethan’s brows lifted. “How do you–”
Clara shrugged, amused. “I can tell.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He tried to make his voice light. “You have superpowers.”
Clara’s smile widened. “I have attention.”
She took his bag from his shoulder and set it neatly by the couch.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” she said. “Go wash your hands.”
Ethan moved toward the sink.
The pantry was in his peripheral vision.
The labelled tins sat in their neat rows.
Tea.
Sugar.
Oats.
Spices.
Everything arranged like a controlled environment.
Ethan told himself his eyes were drawn there because it was familiar.
Not because something in his mind was starting to map patterns.
Clara cooked with that same quiet confidence, moving around the kitchen as if it were an extension of her body. She tasted, adjusted seasoning, wiped counters between steps.
Ethan sat at the table.
His mug waited.
Of course.
Clara served a dish that looked healthy in a way that made Ethan feel judged by comparison. Grilled chicken, vegetables, rice portioned neatly.
“See?” Clara said, pleased. “Clean.”
Ethan forced a smile. “You should start a wellness channel.”
Clara laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”
They ate.
Clara talked about her week. Ethan listened, nodded, tried to keep his mind anchored to normal conversation.
But his body kept pulling his attention inward.
His chest twinged under the soft fabric.
His skin felt sensitive when his forearm brushed the table edge.
His emotions sat too close to the surface, like he was made of thinner material than before.
Clara noticed him shifting.
“You’re tense,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Ethan replied.
Clara’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The line should have comforted him.
Instead, it made him feel like he was being observed through glass.
After dinner, Clara collected plates.
Ethan moved to stand. “I’ll wash.”
Clara shook her head. “No. Sit.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I can help.”
Clara smiled, still gentle. “You can help by resting.”
There was that management again, disguised as care.
Ethan sat.
Clara washed dishes. The sound of water filled the kitchen.
Ethan stared at the empty plate, then at his hands.
His fingers were still.
But he felt shaky under his skin.
Clara finished and dried her hands.
She crossed to the couch and sat beside him.
“About the doctor’s appointment,” she said.
Ethan looked at her.
Clara’s expression was calm. “You’re going to tell them everything, okay?”
Ethan blinked. “Everything?”
“Yes.” She spoke as if it was obvious. “The chest tenderness. The mood swings. The hair. The not shaving.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
He hadn’t told her about the chest tenderness.
Not directly.
He had mentioned the shirt discomfort. He had winced. He had shifted.
But he hadn’t said the word tenderness.
Clara’s eyes met his.
Her expression was open. Unafraid.
Ethan felt his throat tighten.
“How do you know about that?” he asked, trying to make it sound casual.
Clara blinked, then smiled faintly. “Because you’ve been acting like you’re uncomfortable. And because I have eyes.”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He forced a laugh. “Right.”
Clara reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “Don’t be embarrassed. Bodies do weird things. That’s why doctors exist.”
Ethan stared at their joined hands.
Her fingers were warm and steady.
His were cool.
He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said.
Clara’s smile returned, satisfied.
She leaned back and picked up her phone.
A notification flashed briefly on her screen. Ethan caught it only because the bright display reflected in the dark glass of the window.
Delivered.
Clara swiped it away quickly.
Ethan looked away before his mind could attach meaning.
Clara glanced at him. “Maya messaged you today?”
Ethan blinked. “No.”
Clara hummed. “You should tell her you’re seeing a doctor. She worries.”
Ethan frowned. “How do you know she worries?”
Clara’s smile was small. “Because she’s your friend. And because she looked at you like she wanted to shake you at brunch.”
Ethan’s mouth tightened.
He didn’t like that Clara remembered Maya’s expressions.
He didn’t like that Clara collected details.
He told himself this was what caring looked like.
Clara leaned forward and set her phone down on the table.
“I sent you something,” she said.
Ethan frowned. “What?”
“An article.”
Ethan’s phone buzzed.
A link from Clara.
Hormones, stress, and why your body changes when you’re burned out.
Ethan stared at it.
He clicked.
A wellness site filled the screen with pastel graphics and bullet points.
Ethan scrolled, reading phrases like balance and reset and listen to your body.
He felt his irritation rise.
“This is… not medical,” he said.
Clara shrugged. “It’s not supposed to be medical. It’s just… perspective.”
Ethan looked up. “Perspective doesn’t make my chest hurt.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Clara stilled.
Her eyes softened instantly, but something beneath the softness sharpened.
“Your chest hurts?” she asked quietly.
Ethan’s heart thudded.
He hadn’t meant to confess like that.
He swallowed. “It’s probably from the gym.”
Clara’s gaze remained steady. “How long has it been hurting?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry.
He could lie.
He could say a day.
He could say yesterday.
He could keep the fear contained.
Instead, he said, “A few weeks.”
Clara nodded slowly, as if confirming something.
Ethan watched her face.
He searched for surprise.
He found only calm.
“We’ll tell the doctor,” Clara said.
Ethan exhaled sharply. “Can you stop saying ‘we’?”
Clara blinked.
The softness returned, quick and practiced. “Okay.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t want to be rude.
He didn’t want to be ungrateful.
He just wanted to feel like he still belonged to himself.
Clara reached up and touched his hair lightly, smoothing it back. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just… care.”
Ethan stared at her.
He wanted to be angry.
He also wanted to melt into the comfort.
Instead, he said quietly, “I know.”
Clara smiled, relieved.
“Tea?” she asked.
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
He considered refusing.
Then he thought of the day he’d cried in the pantry, of the way his body had become uncontrollable.
He nodded.
Clara went to the kitchen.
Tin.
Scoop.
Stir.
Pour.
The ritual repeated itself with the same calm predictability.
She placed the mug in front of him.
“Drink,” she said.
Ethan wrapped his hands around the ceramic.
Warm.
His mug.
He stared at the crackle pattern.
Tiny fractures frozen in place.
He took a sip.
Warmth slid down.
His shoulders loosened despite himself.
Clara watched him with affection.
Ethan tried to interpret the look as relief.
Not satisfaction.
Not control.
He finished the mug because he didn’t have the energy to fight.
When he set it down, Clara leaned into him and sighed softly, content.
Ethan stared at the blank television screen.
His emotions felt muted now, softened at the edges.
He hated how much he liked the quiet.
On the train home, Ethan pulled up the clinic appointment confirmation on his phone.
Thursday. 10:30 a.m.
He stared at the date and time as if it were a trial.
He scrolled through the appointment details, then through his calendar, checking whether he had meetings.
He didn’t.
He had already cleared it.
He didn’t remember doing it.
A chill slipped under his skin.
He told himself he had done it subconsciously.
He told himself he was responsible.
He told himself this was normal.
When he reached his apartment, he tossed his keys onto the counter and went into the bathroom.
He stared at his reflection.
The soft shirt hid his chest.
His face looked smooth.
His hair fell forward.
He pushed it back, fingers sliding through it too easily.
He leaned closer, inspecting his skin.
It looked… good.
That was the part that made him want to scream.
Because if it looked good, it meant the change wasn’t just in his head.
It was on him.
Ethan opened the cabinet above his sink.
The trash bag of supplements sat by the door, waiting to be taken out.
He stared at the empty space on the shelf where the bottles had been.
He waited for relief.
He felt none.
He went to bed early.
He lay in the dark and listened to his own breathing.
His chest throbbed faintly beneath the softness.
His hair spread across the pillow.
His jaw remained smooth.
He thought about the doctor.
He thought about blood tests.
He thought about questions.
He thought about the way Clara had said we’ll tell the doctor as if she had already placed herself in the room.
He thought about the delivery notification that flashed and disappeared.
He tried not to attach meaning.
He tried not to become suspicious.
He tried, above all, not to imagine that the cause could be something close enough to touch his hair and plate his food and place a mug in front of him like a small, domestic promise.
Ethan turned onto his side and closed his eyes.
In the darkness, he told himself he had done the right thing.
He had thrown out supplements.
He had reduced variables.
He had booked a doctor.
He had done it properly.
The phrase tasted like tea.
Warm.
Comforting.
And faintly, irrationally, like a warning.
Outside his window, the city kept humming.
Inside his body, the weather shifted again, quietly, without asking.
And Ethan–sleepless, tender, too smooth–waited for Thursday like a man waiting for a verdict.