The Sphinx at Breakfast

Elena arranged the supplements in their little plastic coffin: D3 for the bones that would ache later, Omega-3 for the heart that had already broken, B-complex for the nervous system that still hummed with Simon's leaving. She swallowed them without water, a morning communion with her own mortality.

Bast, her black cat, watched from the counter. His golden eyes were ancient, knowing—a sphinx in fur, judging her rituals. He'd been Simon's gift, three years ago, when they still believed in permanence. Now Bast belonged only to Elena, and he made it clear he found her wanting.

"You miss him too," she told the cat.

Bast yawned, revealing teeth that had never known kibble hardship. Elena turned away to stare at the empty chair where Simon used to sit, reading philosophy textbooks and eating toast with maddening precision. Simon had been her sphinx: beautiful, unreadable, posed with questions she could never answer. What do you want from me? What are you thinking? Why do you love me?

He'd left without answering, as sphinxes do.

The vitamins tasted like regret on her tongue. She'd spent so many years trying to optimize herself, trying to become someone Simon wouldn't leave. Pilates, meditation, the right vitamins, the correct books on her shelf. All of it aimed at solving an unsolvable riddle.

Bast jumped down and wound through her legs, purring. For the first time in weeks, Elena laughed—a dry, rusty sound. The cat demanded nothing except food and occasional worship. He was the sphinx's answer, she realized. The riddle wasn't about becoming worthy. It was about accepting what simply was.

She opened the cupboard and reached for the cat food instead of more vitamins. Some things, she decided, you couldn't supplement your way out of. Some missing pieces were never yours to keep.