The Silent Questions

The riddle hung between them like the breath before a scream. Sarah sat on their bed—their bed, still, for three more days—watching Marcus pack. He moved with the efficient, detached precision of someone who'd rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times.

"You're like a sphinx," she said, her voice cracking. "Silent. Impossible to read."

Marcus paused, his hand hovering over a stack of books. "You want me to scream? To break things? Would that make this easier?"

"No. I want you to explain."

He resumed packing. "You were the one taking those vitamins. The mood ones. Remember what the bottle said? 'May cause emotional detachment.'"

Sarah flinched. The vitamins had been her attempt to fix herself—to be less anxious, less demanding, less whatever she was that made him pull away. Now he blamed her for trying to be better.

On her nightstand, their goldfish—Arthur, named after the philosopher who said all we know is nothing—circled his bowl in endless, mindless loops. Sarah had won him at a carnival five years ago, the night Marcus finally said he loved her. Now she understood the irony.

"The cable guy is coming Thursday," Marcus said. "I transferred the account to your name."

Practical. Always practical. He'd already scheduled the dissection of their life, the careful untangling of shared utilities and leases and memories.

Sarah watched his back—broad, familiar, the scar from his bike accident still visible above his collar. She wanted to reach out, trace it with her fingers. Instead, she stood up, grabbed her running shoes from the closet.

"Where are you going?" Marcus asked, finally turning toward her.

"For a run."

"Now? It's midnight."

"Better than staying here watching you erase me."

She pushed past him into the hallway, the goldfish's silent swimming behind her, Marcus's unreadable face burned into her mind. Outside, the cold air hit her lungs like a revelation. She began to run—away from the apartment, away from the question she'd been too afraid to ask, away from the answer she'd always known.

The sphinx never explains. The riddle is the point.