Riddles in the Flesh

The papaya sat on the counter, its orange flesh exposed like a wound I couldn't stop touching. Marcus had bought it two days before the hospital, his hands sure as he sliced through the skin, pretending everything was fine.

"You need more vitamin C," he'd said, already withdrawn into that fortress of silence he'd been building for months. I'd nodded, eaten the sweet fruit, pretended not to notice the pills he was actually taking—palliative care, hidden in a white bottle labeled "supplements."

Now, his sphinx of a sister sat in my living room, dark eyes watching me pack. She'd always reminded me of those ancient statues—beautiful, inscrutable, posed on the edge of riddles she'd never fully answer. Her brother had been easier, or maybe I'd just never needed him to be anything else.

"He knew," she said finally.

I nodded. My iphone buzzed in my pocket—work emails, endless demands, a world that kept spinning while mine stopped. I ignored it.

His cat, Bast, wound around my legs, mewling for food. I'd never liked cats, but Marcus had loved this one's stubborn independence, her refusal to be owned. Another thing I'd accepted because it mattered to him.

"He made me promise not to tell," his sister continued. "Said you'd try to fix it. Fix him."

The air between us thickened with all the things I hadn't said, all the ways I'd played my part in his silence. I'd seen the signs—the weight loss, the fatigue, the way he'd flinch when I touched his side. But I'd let him have his illusion of control, let him pretend he was protecting me when really, he was just afraid.

"I'm not good at riddles," I said. "I never have been."

She nodded once, stood to leave. At the door, she paused.

"Neither was he. That's why he needed you to be."

I finished packing in the empty apartment. The papaya had begun to brown where the air touched it, oxidizing into something still sweet but changed. I ate a slice, tasted time passing, and finally understood what the sphinx had been trying to tell me all along: some answers destroy you, and some riddles are meant to remain unsolved.