The Riddle We Become

The iphone buzzed against her nightstand at 3 AM, illuminating the ceiling like a small, accusing moon. Sarah reached for it automatically—muscle memory from years of sleeping beside a man whose insomnia always became hers. But David was gone now, six weeks past, and the notification was just Spotify's yearly roundup.

"You were in the top 0.5% of listeners," it proclaimed. David had loved acoustic covers. The algorithm still thought she was half of a whole.

Sarah padded to the kitchen, the townhouse silent except for the refrigerator's hum. She'd forgotten to eat again. David would have sighed, that patient, weary sound, and reheated the spinach she'd let go cold in the microwave. He was the one who remembered appointments, birthdays, to pay bills. She was the one who forgot.

The goldfish bowl sat on the counter, a housewarming gift from her sister. "Low maintenance," Lisa had promised. But the fish was floating sideways now, its gills barely moving. Sarah tapped the glass. The fish twitched once, then went still.

Another thing she'd forgotten to care for.

The truth was, David had been her sphinx—the one who asked the riddles and held all the answers. "What are we doing here?" he'd asked once, three years into their marriage, standing in this kitchen. "Are we happy? Or just comfortable?"

She'd laughed it off, poured more wine. But the question had lingered, unanswerable as any ancient mystery, until he'd packed his things and left without forwarding address.

Now she opened her phone again, scrolled to his contact. The last message was from October: "I left your blue sweater on the closet shelf. Take care of yourself."

Sarah typed: "I don't know how."

Her thumb hovered over send. Then she deleted it. Some admissions were too heavy to send into the void.

She turned instead to the goldfish, lifted it gently from the bowl with a spoon. It was barely moving, its silver scales catching the kitchen light. She carried it to the bathroom, where she'd been letting the tub fill with cool water all week—just in case.

"One more chance," she whispered, lowering it into the larger water. The fish drifted, then stirred, fins testing the new space.

Not dead. Just needed more room to swim.

Sarah watched it a long time, then picked up her phone. Not David's contact. The therapist her sister had recommended. The appointment line picked up on the third ring.

This time she left her name.