When the Sphinx Asked About Papayas

I'm running — literally, my Nikes hitting the pavement in a rhythm that matches my frantic thoughts. Coach Martinez says I've got state qualifier potential, but right now, all I can think about is how my best friend Sahara hasn't spoken to me since lunch.

Three days ago, everything was fine. We were sitting in her bedroom like we always do, but this time her old teddy **bear** was staring at me from the bookshelf — Mr. Cuddles, the one she's had since she was three, the one she'd never let anyone touch. And I'd accidentally knocked it over while reaching for my phone.

"It's just a bear," I'd said, trying to laugh it off.

But Sahara just looked at me with these hollow eyes and said, "You don't get it. Some things aren't just things."

Now I'm rounding the corner by the new juice bar, Papaya Paradise, where half the debate team hangs out after school. Through the window, I see her — Sahara — sitting with Jenna, wearing that vintage **sphinx** necklace she found at the thrift store last month. The mythological creature with the human head and lion body, known for asking riddles no one could answer. That's Sahara lately: a puzzle I can't solve.

I slow to a walk, breathing hard, and suddenly she's there, walking toward me.

"You've been **running** from me," she says, not accusing, just stating it like it's fact.

"I'm training — " I start.

"No, you're avoiding me because you think I'm being dramatic about Mr. Cuddles." She shifts her backpack. "But that bear was the last thing my dad gave me before he moved out. I know it sounds stupid, but..."

My stomach drops. I'd forgotten about her dad leaving last summer.

"Sahara, I didn't know — "

"I know." She sighs, pulling something from her pocket. "I got you something.**Papaya** gummies. Your favorite."

"You remembered?"

"You're my **friend**, Maya. Even when I'm being complicated sphinx lady." She actually smiles a little. "My riddle isn't that hard. I just needed you to listen."

We stand there for a second, and I realize I've been so focused on my own embarrassment about the bear that I forgot to ask what she actually needed. Sometimes the people closest to us are the ones we understand the least.

"Want to walk to practice together?" I ask.

"Only if you let me braid your hair afterward," she says. "It's looking tragic."

I laugh, and for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest loosens. Some answers aren't found at the finish line — they're found in the messy middle, walking beside someone who knows exactly what kind of gummies you like.