The Riddle of Leaving

Maya had been running from the truth for three years, since the day Elias left their apartment with nothing but a suitcase and a mumbled apology about not being ready for forever. Now, as she stood in their — her — bathroom with a pair of scissors, watching her dark hair fall in thick coils onto the tiled floor, she finally understood what forever really meant.

Her cat, Bast, wound around her ankles, mewling for breakfast, completely indifferent to Maya's crisis. Bast had been Elias's anniversary gift, a tiny kitten with golden eyes that reminded them both of something ancient and wise. Now the cat was four years old, and Maya was thirty-two, and neither of them belonged to anyone but themselves.

The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger. Her hair, once long enough to sit on, now ended in jagged angles above her shoulders. She looked younger and older simultaneously, exposed in a way she hadn't been since before she met Elias. She looked like someone who might ask difficult questions.

A sphinx without a riddle.

At work, her colleagues would notice. They'd whisper, speculate about breakdowns or midlife crises or the new director with the predatory smile who'd been making comments about her appearance since October. Let them talk. Maya had spent her entire adult life performing versions of herself for other people — the dutiful daughter, the supportive girlfriend, the reliable employee who never made waves.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Her mother, calling to discuss Maya's younger sister's wedding. How much money would Maya contribute? Would she bring a plus-one? Was she seeing anyone?

Maya let it ring.

She opened the drawer and took out the bottle of dye she'd bought on impulse yesterday — a vibrant, impossible red that would make her look like someone who made terrible decisions and loved every minute of it. Someone who didn't apologize for taking up space.

Bast jumped onto the counter and batted at the bottle, curious. Maya scratched behind her ears, the cat's loud purr vibrating against her palm. Some loves were simple. Some required no explanations beyond being present, being fed, being worthy of trust.

The scissors glinted under the bathroom lights. Maya wasn't running anymore. She was finally, finally staying.