Sarah weighed twenty-eight grams of almonds into the white bowl. Three o’clock.
When Marcus brought cake for his birthday, she said she was fine. She was not fine. She wanted cake — specifically the corner piece, with the frosting ridge. But cake was an unknown. Flour, butter, sugar in proportions she couldn’t verify. It would sit in the day’s log as a question mark, and question marks required adjustments: smaller dinner, longer walk, a note for tomorrow’s totals.
The almonds were twenty-eight grams. She knew exactly what they cost.
She’d started the tracker in March because eating had become stressful. By June, the stress had moved. It lived in the app now — tidy, accounted for, hers. The meals themselves were easy. She didn’t decide; she executed. One less thing to feel.
Marcus left the remaining cake in the kitchen. By four o’clock it was gone. Sarah ate her last almond at 3:47 and felt the small, clean satisfaction of a number that closed.