The Riddle Between Us

The cable between my fingers felt like a lifeline, which was ridiculous given that I was literally installing fiber optic internet for strangers. But there was something about the weight of it, the way it curled around my wrist, that reminded me of how she used to hold my arm when we walked through the city — possessive, anchoring, impossible to shake.

"You still thinking about her?" Marcus asked, leaning against the doorframe. We hadn't spoken in three years, not since the wedding I'd declined to attend. Not since she'd chosen someone else.

"I'm thinking about this connection," I lied. "Testing packet loss."

"You always were terrible at lying. Remember that baseball game? Senior year?" He laughed, and the sound was like stepping on dried leaves — familiar, fragile, easily crushed. "You told everyone you were sick, but I found you at her house, sitting on her porch like a sphinx guarding its secrets."

I hadn't thought about that day in years. The way she'd opened the door, eyes swollen from crying over something she'd refused to explain. The way I'd sat there for hours, silent as stone, waiting for her to let me in. She never had.

"She emailed me yesterday," I said suddenly. The words felt foreign in my mouth. "She's getting divorced."

Marcus's expression shifted — pity, calculation, something else I couldn't read. Maybe that was the problem with us, with all of it. We were always performing mystery instead of offering truth. She'd been my sphinx, all riddles and silence, and I'd been too cowardly to walk away.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Nothing. Yet." I stripped the cable's casing with practiced hands. "But I'm thinking about driving there tonight."

"Don't," he said softly. "Some riddles don't have answers worth finding."

But as I finished the installation, watching the connection light blink green, I wondered if he was right — or if some mysteries were worth unraveling, even if they left you empty-handed in the end.