The Riddle We Never Answered

The iPhone screen illuminated the dark bedroom at 3:14 AM. Sarah's name glowing like some ancient sphinx with a riddle I couldn't solve: *Where do we go from here?* I watched her sleep beside me, her breathing rhythmic and unknowable. We'd been together seven years, and I still couldn't parse the mystery of her.

Earlier that evening, I'd cooked spinach and feta for dinner because it was her favorite. She'd picked at it, eyes darting to her phone, to the window, anywhere but me. 'You're too cautious,' she'd said finally. 'Like you're always waiting for something to go wrong.'

I thought about the fox we'd seen in the backyard last week—lean, cautious, always ready to bolt. She called it beautiful. I called it survival instinct.

Now her phone buzzed again. A message from Mark. Her coworker. The one who'd made that joke at the Christmas party about me being too serious, the bull in the china shop of their creative chaos. She'd laughed.

I slid the phone across the nightstand, fighting the urge to check. The truth sat heavy in my chest: I'd become the bull she needed to tame, or perhaps the fox she needed to outsmart. Neither fit anymore.

The spinach sat in the refrigerator, wilting. Our relationship had reduced itself to small disappointments, leftovers of something once nourishing.

Her phone lit up once more. I didn't look. Instead, I watched her eyelids flutter, dreaming of something—maybe Mark, maybe freedom, maybe nothing at all. The sphinx remained silent, and for the first time in seven years, I realized some riddles aren't meant to be solved.

I slipped out of bed, left the iPhone on the nightstand, and walked to the kitchen. The spinach could wait until morning. Some things, I decided, were better left to spoil.