The Riddle of Us

The bleachers were packed, but I was running on empty. Jackson's text had been sitting unread in my pocket for forty-five minutes: *We need to talk.* Classic breakup energy, except we weren't even dating. Just best friends since third grade, until everything went sideways this semester.

I spotted him by the concession stand, wearing that vintage sphinx shirt I'd gotten him for his birthday last year. The irony wasn't lost on me—riddle me this, riddle me that, but neither of us had the courage to say what was actually happening.

"Hey," I said, suddenly hyper-aware of my hands.

"Hey." He kicked at nothing. "So. About that night."

The night. The one everyone at school had opinions about, the one that had turned our friend group into a game of telephone gone wrong. The one where I'd maybe-sorta-kinda kissed his crush at Casey's party.

"Look," I started, my voice doing that annoying crackly thing, "I know it was weird, but it was literally two seconds of—"

"It's not about Maya," he cut in. "Well, it is, but it's mostly..." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him like heat. "Why didn't you tell me you liked her? I thought we told each other everything."

I stared at him. "Are you serious? You've been obsessed with her since September. I wasn't about to make things weird."

"You literally made things WEIRDER by not saying anything!" He actually laughed, but it was that awful choked laugh. "Do you know how hard it is to be your friend sometimes? You're always running away from stuff before it gets real."

"I'm not running away."

"You kind of are, though."

The football game noise swelled behind us—someone scored, cheers erupting like fireworks. But in that concession stand corner, everything went quiet.

"I didn't want to lose you," I finally said, and it was the most honest thing I'd said in months.

Jackson looked at me, really looked at me. "You're not gonna lose me, dumbass. I'm mad, but I'm not going anywhere. But you gotta stop treating me like I'm made of glass. I can handle real conversations."

"Even the awkward ones?"

"Especially the awkward ones. That's literally what friendship is."

I exhaled. "Okay. Okay. So can we... I don't know, start over? Without all the weirdness?"

"Yeah," he said, and the tension in his shoulders finally dropped. "But you're buying me nachos. Emotional labor requires compensation."

"Deal."

We ended up sitting through the rest of the game, not saying much, just existing in that comfortable way we used to. The sphinx on his shirt seemed to smile a little less mysteriously now. Some riddles don't need answers—just someone willing to sit with you through the questions.