What the Riddle Asked

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, casting shadows across Elena's chest as she lay sleeping. Marcus watched her breathe, the **palm** of his hand still tingling from where it had rested against her shoulder just moments ago. Outside their rented bungalow, the ocean whispered against the shore, a rhythmic lie suggesting that everything was fine.

He should have been happy. This was supposed to be their reconciliation trip, the second honeymoon they'd booked after six months of couples therapy. But some things couldn't be therapied away.

The silence between them had become a creature of its own—a **sphinx** perched at the foot of their bed, asking riddles he couldn't answer. What do you call a marriage that looks perfect from the outside but hollow within? How do you tell the woman you've loved for seven years that you've been in love with her brother for three of them?

Elena stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Marcus's chest tightened. He couldn't **bear** it—not the weight of it, not the way she looked at him with such unwavering trust, not the way she called him "her rock" when he felt more like quicksand.

"Morning," she murmured, stretching. "What do you want to do today?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe just stay here."

She laughed softly. "We came all the way to Bali to stay in bed? Come on, let's get breakfast. I saw a place down the beach that serves fresh **spinach** omelets. You said you'd try something green that wasn't a martini."

Marcus stared at her. Spinach. Omelets. Green things that weren't alcohol. She remembered everything, held onto every small promise like they were sacred. And that was the cruelest part—she remembered who he was supposed to be, even when he'd forgotten himself.

The sphinx's riddle echoed in his mind: What destroys you slowly while making you believe you're staying exactly the same?

"Marcus?" Elena reached for his hand. "You okay?"

He interlaced his fingers with hers, palm to palm, flesh to flesh. The truth sat in his throat like swallowed glass.

"No," he said finally. "But I think I'm about to be."