Riddles in the Pocket

The sphinx stared at me from across the exhibit hall, its stone eyes holding all the secrets I'd been trying to unlock since freshman year began. I leaned against the glass case, my iPhone burning a hole in my pocket like a guilty secret I couldn't quite hide. Three hours since I'd texted Tyler. Three hours of radio silence while he was probably at baseball practice, being the kind of effortless that made my stomach twist itself into knots.

"You're overthinking again," I muttered to myself, but it was Buster who answered, tugging at his leash with that look that said he knew exactly what kind of spiral I was spiraling into. My dog had witnessed more teen angst than any golden retriever should have to endure.

The museum's Egypt exhibit had become my sanctuary—ancient pyramids reaching toward impossible heights, hieroglyphs telling stories I couldn't read but felt in my bones. Here, among the dead things and forgotten mysteries, I didn't have to perform. Didn't have to curate the perfect Instagram post. Didn't have to wonder why Tyler, the varsity pitcher with the smile that could launch ships, had even bothered to notice me in the first place.

The riddle of the sphinx echoed in my head: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? Maybe the real riddle was how you went from being someone's everything to being not enough in the space between texts.

My phone buzzed.

Sorry practice ran long. Can't tonight.

The words hit like a baseball to the chest. I stared at the screen, watching my reflection in the black mirror—a girl trying too hard, wearing too much eyeliner, caring too much about someone who probably didn't think about her at all between innings.

Buster nudged my hand with his wet nose, and something cracked open inside me. Not a pyramidsocial hierarchy where I ranked somewhere near the bottom. Not the longing to be someone else's sphinx—mysterious and untouchable.

Something real.

I typed back, No worries. Then deleted it. Typed: Buster says we're going for ice cream instead. Hit send.

The sphinx's stone gaze seemed different now. Less judgmental. More like it was waiting for me to figure out the answer all along. The riddle wasn't about changing who I was to fit someone else's pyramid scheme of worthiness. It was about learning to walk on my own two feet—even when they shook, even when they wanted to run, even when leaving everything behind felt like the scariest thing in the world.

Buster wagged his tail, like he knew something I was just starting to understand.

Some riddles you solve. Some riddles you grow into. And some answers aren't found in someone else's text messages at all.