The Riddle Between Us

The goldfish floated near the glass surface, its orange scales catching the morning light that filtered through our bedroom window. Three years we'd had it—some carnival prize from a date I now struggled to remember the details of. The fish circled endlessly in its bowl, much like the thoughts that had been swimming through my mind since I found her phone unlocked on the nightstand two nights ago.

I sat on the edge of the bed watching her sleep. Her iPhone lay between us like a sphinx—guardian of secrets, poser of riddles I wasn't sure I wanted to solve. The notification that had lit up the screen at 3 AM had been brief, cryptic: "Can't stop thinking about Tuesday."

Tuesday. She'd told me she was working late.

The goldfish surfaced, its mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles. I'd read once that goldfish have three-second memories, that they live in perpetual novelty, never remembering the swim they just completed. Sometimes I envied that. Sometimes I wanted to forget the way she'd looked at me over dinner yesterday, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, her thumb constantly grazing her phone screen like a nervous tic.

She stirred, her hand reaching instinctively for the device. Her eyes found mine across the pillow.

"You're up early,"

"Couldn't sleep."

The sphinx remained silent between us. Some riddles, I realized, destroy you when you solve them. Some mysteries are the only thing holding fragile things together.

I reached out and took her hand instead of asking the questions that had been burning in my throat. Her fingers interlaced with mine, warm and familiar. The goldfish continued its endless circles, content in its small world, and I wondered if ignorance really was its own kind of wisdom—whether some truths were better left submerged, unspoken, swimming in the dark depths of things we choose not to know about the people we love.

"Let's get breakfast,"

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. Or maybe I just needed to believe it did.