Riddles at Midnight

The hotel pool was deserted at 2 AM, its black surface reflecting only the moon and my own increasingly desperate expression. Elena sat on the edge, her legs in the water, holding a tumbler of scotch like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"You haven't changed," she said, not looking at me. "Still overthinking everything."

"Some things deserve thought. Like why you called me after three years of silence."

She turned then, and I saw it — the same sphinx-like quality that had always unnerved me. The way she held secrets behind those eyes, offering riddles instead of answers, demanding you solve yourself before she'd reveal anything. Our friendship had always been like this: beautiful, frustrating, impossible to fully grasp.

"The talent pool at the firm," she said finally. "They're doing cuts. I thought you should know."

My chest tightened. "You're still there? After everything?"

"Where else would I go?" She laughed without humor. "Besides, someone has to stay and watch it burn."

The water lapped against the tiles. I remembered the night she'd left my apartment, the things unsaid between us, the way she'd disappeared from my life without explanation. Now here she was, another impossible riddle wrapped in designer clothes and expensive whiskey.

"Why tell me this?"

"Because," she said, setting down the glass and sliding into the pool fully clothed, "you were the only person who ever saw through me. And I think you deserve the chance to get out before it collapses."

She floated on her back, staring up at the moon. "The sphinx asks riddles because she wants to be understood, you know. Not because she wants to destroy."

I watched her there in the dark water, realizing I still loved her — as a friend, as something more, as the most complicated person I'd ever known. Some riddles you solve. Others you just learn to live beside.

"Come in," she said. "The water's fine."

And for the first time in three years, I stopped thinking and jumped.