Riddles of the Sphinx

The sphinx stared back at Elena from across the museum gallery, its limestone face weathered by millennia, its riddle long since silenced. She'd been coming here every Thursday for months, seeking answers in stone that no living person could give.

Three years ago, Marcus had been more than a friend — he was the one who held her hair back during her divorce, who sat with her in hospital waiting rooms when her mother was dying. Now, his voice was just another notification on her phone.

"I'm engaged to Sarah," he'd told her two nights ago, his voice measured, as if testing whether she'd break. She hadn't. She'd smiled, said congratulations, and carried the weight of it like a stone in her chest.

She went running after work now, through the darkened city streets, her sneakers slapping against pavement while her thoughts chased themselves in circles. The physical exhaustion was easier than this — this slow erosion of something she'd believed was permanent.

The sphinx had known something about transience. About how even the mightiest kingdoms turned to dust. Maybe that was the riddle: how to bear the unbearable without becoming hard yourself.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus.

"You haven't RSVP'd to the engagement party."

She typed and deleted three responses. Finally: "I'll be there."

She would. She'd wear something elegant and drink champagne and watch him make a life with someone else, because that's what friends did. They bore witness to each other's choices, even the ones that hollowed you out.

The sphinx offered no wisdom, but its silence felt like companionship. Some riddles weren't meant to be solved — only lived through, one foot in front of the other, running until your lungs burned and you could finally breathe again.