The Riddle of Us

The sphinx moth tapped against the glass of our balcony door, drawn to the lamp you'd left burning all night. I watched its dusty wings—brown and patterned like something ancient—while you slept, curled away from me, your breathing rhythmic and unbothered.

Outside, lightning cracked the Hawaiian sky, illuminating the papaya on the bedside table where you'd left it half-eaten. The fruit's flesh glowed briefly in that electric flash, bright and orange and strangely violent, before darkness swallowed the room again.

Your iPhone lit up the space between us. 3:47 AM.

Another message from *Her*.

I knew without touching it. I'd stopped checking your phone weeks ago—stopped wanting to know the specifics of your betrayal. The not-knowing had become its own kind of shelter. But seeing that screen glow, feeling its silent demand for attention, I understood something fundamental: you had already chosen.

The sphinx, I thought. The riddle wasn't what breaks you. The riddle was what you endure while telling yourself you're happy.

Lightning struck again, closer this time. The room washed white. I saw your face, peaceful in sleep, and realized the tenderness I felt was already ghost-like—attachment to a memory, not the man beside me. You'd been gone for months. I was the one still haunting our marriage.

I dressed quietly, packed my bag. Left the papaya untouched.

In the lobby, the night clerk looked up from his phone. 'Storm's coming,' he said.

'I know,' I answered. 'I'm ready.'