The Riddle of Us

Maya stood on the padel court, sweat trickling down her spine despite the morning chill. The corporate retreat had been David's idea—a last-ditch effort to save what was already dead between them. She watched him across the net, his polo shirt pristine, his smile that familiar careful mask.

'Your serve,' he called, bouncing the ball. The sphinx of a riddle hung between them, unspoken: how do you love someone you've stopped recognising?

Later, over lunch, she watched him pick spinach from his teeth with his little finger. He'd done that on their first date, seven years ago. Then, she'd found it endearingly human. Now, it felt like watching a stranger perform intimate gestures.

'I spoke to Helen,' David said, not meeting her eyes. 'She thinks we should try counseling.' Helen was his executive assistant, twenty-three, with opinions on everything.

Maya remembered the nights she'd worked herself to exhaustion, the version of herself that had moved through their apartment like a zombie—present, functional, but hollowed out. She'd worn competence like a hat you could take off when no one was watching.

'David.' She set down her fork. 'I don't want counseling.' The words surprised her with their clarity. 'I want to stop pretending this is working.'

He looked up then, really looked at her. 'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying that spinach in your teeth isn't charming anymore. It's just spinach.' She stood up. 'I'm saying I'm done.'

Outside, the wind carried off her words like they'd never been spoken. But something in her chest finally, finally opened.