The Riddle of Wellness

Take your vitamin D, David said, placing the amber capsule on my nightstand like an offering to a capricious god.

I couldn't reconcile David's actions with his words. His touch felt distant, yet he claimed everything was fine. The riddle of our marriage reminded me of the sphinx we'd seen in Egypt three years ago—stone wings folded against an impossible question I still couldn't answer.

We were at this wellness retreat in Costa Rica because David's doctor had warned about his cortisol levels. Another prescription, another attempt to optimize a life that felt increasingly hollow.

The first morning, I found him at breakfast, meticulously arranging papaya slices on his plate. "Rich in digestive enzymes," he said, not meeting my eyes. The fruit sat there, vibrant and alien, like something that belonged to a different life.

I swam in the resort pool at dawn, cutting through water that felt like liquid glass. Each lap was a form of meditation, an attempt to wash away the gnawing sense that something fundamental had eroded between us. The swimming became my only refuge—a temporary suspension of gravity, of expectation, of the weight of unsaid words.

That afternoon, while David was at his sound healing session, I found his phone unlocked. Texts to someone named Elena: "I can't stop thinking about you." The wellness retreat, his obsession with supplements, the sudden interest in meditation—it had all been performative. A performance for me, or for himself, I couldn't tell.

I confronted him that evening as he counted out his evening supplements—vitamin C, zinc, magnesium, omega-3. A precise ritual for a life spiraling out of control.

"Elena," I said.

He didn't look up. "It's not what you think."

"What is it then?"

His hands shook. "I don't know."

The ancient sphinx had devoured those who couldn't answer her riddle. But David didn't have answers, only vitamins and evasion. He'd built a fortress of wellness routines around himself, but the foundation was rotting.

That night, I swam again under moonlight, imagining the papaya on the kitchen counter, sweet flesh turning to mush. Some questions, I realized, don't have answers—only the slow decay of not asking them. The water embraced me, cold and honest, unlike everything else in this carefully curated paradise.

I emerged from the pool gasping, finally ready to speak the truth to a man who'd forgotten how to hear it.