The Riddle After Midnight

Maya sat on her balcony at 2 AM, nursing a glass of cheap white wine and watching the **lightning** fissure the sky above downtown. Her **iPhone** lay silent beside her—no messages from David since the incident at the office, nothing but the ghost of a text she'd sent six hours ago that still read 'delivered' but never 'read.'

Inside, her apartment smelled of oranges. She'd bought a bag at the corner store, something normal and grounding, but now the citrus scent just reminded her of how thoroughly she'd misread every signal. Three years of working late together, of shared coffees and lingering glances across conference tables, and she'd finally made her move tonight—only to discover David had been promoted to director yesterday, the position she'd also applied for, the one they'd joked about 'fighting' for like cartoon characters.

He hadn't even mentioned it during their post-work drinks.

Maya peeled an orange, the bitter spray misting her fingers. She felt like she'd been answering a riddle she hadn't been given, like the **sphinx** had simply changed the rules mid-game. The question hadn't been 'does he love me?' but rather 'what's he willing to sacrifice?' And the answer was apparently: everything, including honesty.

Her phone buzzed. Not David. Her mother: 'Your father's in the hospital. Heart issues. They're saying he'll need surgery.'

Maya stared at the screen. The **bear** of responsibility settled onto her chest—her father, the mortgage they'd co-signed, the promotion she'd lost, the relationship that had never really existed. She stood up, the orange half-falling to the floor, and dialed her mother's number.

Some battles weren't about riddles or promotions or even love. Some were just about showing up.

'I'm coming,' she said, and meant it.