The Riddle of You

The storm broke as Maya unlocked the apartment door, lightning cracking the sky open like an egg. Inside, Daniel stood by the window, swallowing a vitamin D supplement with practiced indifference. Another capsule for the deficiency she'd never actually diagnosed.

'You're back,' he said, not turning around.

'Move your things out by Friday.' She placed her keys on the counter—the orange ceramic bowl they'd bought in Paris catching the late afternoon light. It had seemed charming then, the way he'd negotiated in broken French with the vendor. Now she saw it for what it was: performance.

'I thought we were friends,' he said, finally facing her. His expression was that of a sphinx, inscrutable and ancient, guarding secrets he'd never volunteered.

'Friends don't lie about where they were until 3 AM on a Tuesday.' She reached for an orange from the bowl, needing something to do with her hands. The fruit was perfect, heavy in her palm, its skin fragrant with promise. She couldn't bring herself to peel it. 'I'm done solving your riddles, Daniel. The answer is always more layers of the same thing.'

Outside, another flash of lightning illuminated his face—briefly, terribly. She saw the resignation there. He'd known this was coming. Had probably calculated it, like he calculated everything: the optimal number of months to string her along, the precise emotional investment required to keep her hopeful without committing.

'You're the one who wanted something casual,' he said quietly.

'And you're the one who let me believe it might become more.' She set the orange down gently. 'I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming myself for thinking I could change someone by loving them enough.'

The thunder that followed shook the windowpane. Neither of them moved.

'There's coffee,' he offered, a final peace offering, inadequate and sincere.

'No. Just—just go.' She watched him gather his coat, his keys, the bottle of vitamins from the counter. When the door clicked shut behind him, she finally peeled the orange, tearing into it like she meant to start something. The juice stung the small cut on her thumb she hadn't noticed she had. Perfect. She stood in the kitchen eating it section by section, not crying, waiting for the next strike of lightning to remind her she was still here, still capable of feeling something, even if it was just the sharp bright shock of being alone again.