The Sphinx Who Caught Me Staring

The goldfish bowl sat on my desk, a tiny universe I'd inherited when my brother moved out. 'Don't overfeed them,' he'd said, like that was the only responsibility I'd ever have. Meanwhile, I couldn't even figure out how to talk to Alex without my brain doing a complete system reboot.

Alex was the fox in our sophomore class—clever, quick, always three steps ahead of everyone else. We'd been assigned as lab partners, and I spent forty minutes every Tuesday overthinking whether 'pass the beaker' sounded too aggressive. My friends said I was being dramatic. They said a lot of things.

Then there was Maya, the self-appointed spy of the friend group. She noticed everything—the way Alex's eyes lingered a second too long when asking for homework help, how I fumbled with my pencil case whenever he walked by. 'You're being so obvious,' she'd whisper during lunch, like I wasn't already painfully aware.

The real problem wasn't Alex, though. It was this whole performance—the constant acting like I had everything figured out when I felt like I was drowning. That was my bear to bear, the weight I carried through hallways and cafeteria lines while everyone else seemed to glide through high school.

Friday at Jordan's party, Alex found me on the back porch, escaping the chaos inside. 'You're like a sphinx,' he said, leaning against the railing. 'All mysterious and quiet, like you're guarding some ancient secret.'

I almost laughed. 'If you only knew.'

'Maybe I want to.' The way he said it—soft, genuine—made something in my chest unclench. For once, my brain didn't overthink. 'Your goldfish probably needs feeding,' he added, and I realized he'd actually remembered me mentioning them earlier that week.

The sphinx had riddles. I had anxiety. But maybe, just maybe, Alex liked puzzles.

'Want to help me figure out the perfect amount?' I asked.

He smiled. 'Absolutely.'