The Riddle of Leaving

Maya stood at the bathroom mirror, her wet **hair** plastered against her skull like dark seaweed. The shower had been scalding, but the cold had returned before she'd even toweled off. Outside, rain drummed against the window, **water** sliding down the glass like the tears she refused to cry.

In the bedroom, Daniel was already dressed, packing with the methodical efficiency that had first attracted her—before she realized it was emotional cowardice in disguise. His **iPhone** buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up with a message she knew she shouldn't read. The riddle of their marriage sat between them like a **sphinx**, silent and inscrutable, demanding an answer neither could provide.

"You're doing it again," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "That thing where you disappear before the conversation even starts."

He zipped his bag, the sound harsh in the sudden quiet. "There's nothing left to say, Maya."

She remembered their trip to Alaska, the grizzly **bear** they'd watched from the safety of a boat, fishing in a river. Daniel had been fascinated by its raw power, its terrifying beauty. She had seen only its profound loneliness, the way it moved through the world needing nothing, belonging to nothing. That's what he'd become, she realized—magnificent and unreachable, a creature that tolerated her presence but would never truly need it.

"When did you stop loving me?" she asked, and the sphinx finally spoke, its answer simple and devastating: he didn't know. Perhaps he never had.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she heard the truth in it—he was sorry, but he wasn't staying.

He shouldered his bag and walked past her, his cologne lingering like a ghost. She didn't follow him to the door. Some riddles, she understood, solve themselves by destroying what cannot be saved.