Riddles of the Unfed

Maya's thumb hovered over her iPhone screen, doomscrolling through highlights of the party she wasn't at. Again. Classic FOMO, but whatever. She was fifteen and apparently allergic to fun.

"You look like a zombie," her little brother Leo observed from the doorway, clutching Mr. Cuddles, the stuffed bear he'd refused to part with since kindergarten. "Mom says dinner's ready."

Maya rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."

She slumped downstairs where her parents were watching some documentary about Egypt. The sphinx on screen stared back at her—stone riddles, impossible questions, devouring those who couldn't answer.

"You okay, honey?" her mom asked. "You seem distant lately."

*Oh you know,* Maya thought. *Just wrestling with existential dread and the crushing weight of expectations while my soul slowly dissolves into the void.* But she said, "Fine. Just tired."

Later that night, Maya crept into Leo's room and borrowed Mr. Cuddles. The bear's one eye stared up at her, ridiculous and comforting. She remembered when life was simple—when the biggest problem was which color crayon to use.

Her iPhone buzzed. Another invitation. Another party.

Maya looked at the screen. Then at Mr. Cuddles. Then at her reflection in the dark window—eyes glassy, movements mechanical, smartphone replacing her brain.

She was the sphinx's riddle, and she didn't know the answer.

"Bear with me," she whispered to the stuffed animal. "We're gonna figure this out."

Maybe the real riddle wasn't who she was supposed to be. Maybe it was who she already was—somewhere between the zombie scroll and the teddy bear, between the expectations and the truth.

Maya typed back: "Sure. I'll come."

Her thumb hesitated. Then deleted it.

Instead, she opened Notes and started writing. Something real. Something hers.

The sphinx could wait. This was her riddle to solve.