Riddles in the Palm of My Hand

The orange glow of sunset hit Marcus's hair as we sat on his roof, passing a warm orange soda back and forth. My palms were sweating—not because of the heat, but because I was about to confess everything.

"You've been acting like a total spy lately," Marcus said, cracking open the soda. "Following me, asking weird questions. What's up with that?"

I stared at my shoes. "Okay, remember when I told you I overheard Maya talking about her party?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't just overhear it." I took a deep breath. "I've been kinda... spying on her group chat. Through Jamie's phone."

Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "Dude. That's lowkey creepy."

"I know!" I buried my face in my hands. "But I needed to know if she was inviting me, and—"

"And you ended up looking through her private messages? That's not okay, man."

The weight of it hit me. I'd violated someone's privacy because I was desperate to be included, to be part of the friend group that felt like some ancient sphinx—impossible to please, full of riddles I couldn't solve. Maya and her crew were perfect, effortless, while I was still figuring out who I even was.

"You're right," I said. "I'll delete everything. I just... I just wanted to know where I stood."

Marcus softened. "Look, real friends don't make you jump through hoops. And they definitely don't make you spy on them."

He extended his palm toward me. "High five for worst decision of the semester?"

I laughed and slapped his hand. "Easily."

"But hey," he added, "at least you came clean. That's what real ones do."

The sun dipped below the horizon as I texted Jamie: Tell Maya I saw everything. I'm sorry. Then I deleted the screenshots.

Sometimes the riddles aren't about solving other people—they're about figuring out your own worth. And maybe that was the answer all along.