Riddles Under Palm Trees

I was running late—again—with sweaty palms and a dead iPhone battery. Classic me.

"You're missing it!" Mia's text had said two hours ago, before my phone died. Now I was sprinting toward the old boardwalk arcade where everything in our friend group had started to unravel.

Three weeks ago, Mia had posted a photo of a sphinx moth she'd found in her backyard. It had been this beautiful, rare creature—creamy wings with intricate patterns, like something from a fantasy novel. But someone—okay, it was Tyler—had commented "That's a moth? Looks like a dust bunny with wings."

Mia had deleted her account the next day.

The arcade smelled like stale popcorn and sea salt. I found her at our favorite machine—the one with the glitchy screen that sometimes gave free credits. She was feeding it tokens, eyes red-rimmed but fierce.

"Hey," I said, palms suddenly even sweatier.

She didn't look up. "Tyler said he was joking. Everyone's telling me to get over it."

"They're wrong."

She finally looked at me. "You're just saying that because you're my best friend. You have to."

"No," I said. "I'm saying it because that moth was actually beautiful. And because Tyler's literally the guy who thought the ocean was salty because of fish pee."

She cracked the tiniest smile.

Outside, we sat under the palm trees as the sun set, the fronds swaying like they were listening. Mia pulled out her iPhone—she'd reactivated her account just five minutes ago.

"Riddle me this," she said, channeling her inner sphinx. "What's rare, delicate, and deserves better than dust bunny jokes?"

"You," I said. "And sphinx moths. But mostly you."

She laughed, and for the first time in weeks, it felt real. "You know what's weird? I found another one this morning. Another sphinx moth."

"See? They're drawn to you. You're like... a moth whisperer now."

"Or maybe," she said, "they're just reminding me to stop letting people who don't get it decide what matters."

I nodded, leaning back against the palm trunk. The arcade lights flickered on behind us, neon and glowing, and somewhere in the distance, the ocean kept doing its thing—waves rolling in like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

"Next time," I said, "we're taking the photos. And if anyone says anything, we're blocking them."

"Deal." She held up her phone. "Want to see the new moth picture?"

"Obviously."

Some friendships have riddles you never quite solve. But this? This was the easy part.