[Setting: Claire and Elliot’s Apartment – 2:30 AM]

The apartment was bathed in shadows, save for the weak amber glow spilling through the window from a flickering streetlight outside. It was one of those nights where the silence held just the faintest hum—a city catching its breath between chaos. Claire and Elliot were asleep, bundled in mismatched blankets that hadn’t quite found their place in this "charming" apartment.

And then, the sound started.

Not a knock. Not pounding. No, this was worse—a persistent tap-tap-tap, followed by a shuffle, and then... silence.

Then it started again.

Elliot (groaning, pulling the blanket over his head): “Claire, tell whoever that is to go away. It’s 2 AM.”

Claire (grumbling, half-asleep): “If I answer the door at 2 AM, it’ll be with a baseball bat.”

Tap. Tap. Shuffle.

The tapping grew insistent, like a child poking a sibling just to test the limits of their sanity.

Elliot (now wide awake): “Okay, okay, I’m getting it before it breaks me!”

He stumbled out of bed, bare feet meeting cold wood floors, and trudged toward the door. His hair stuck out in every possible direction—a man on the brink of sleep-deprivation-induced rage.

Elliot (yanking the door open, voice sharp): “What?!”

And there he was.

The God of Conundrums.

Slouched against the doorframe, his tie undone, his jacket rumpled like it had been through a washer and a philosophical debate. His mismatched socks peeked out from under his trousers. But most importantly, his eyes—usually glinting with smug riddles—were glassy and unfocused. In his arms, he cradled a pineapple like it was a fragile newborn.

Conundrum (slurring slightly): “Elliot... my man. My friend.”

Elliot blinked. “Conundrum... are you drunk?”

Conundrum (with theatrical offense, straightening up just a little): “Me? Drunk? Oh, Elliot, I am... unmoored. There’s a difference.”

Claire appeared behind Elliot, sleep still clinging to her voice. “Why is there a man holding a pineapple on our porch at 2:30 in the morning?”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Conundrum looked down at the pineapple in his arms and frowned, as though he hadn’t realized it was there. Then, he offered it to Elliot with the gravity of a royal decree.

Conundrum: “Here. I brought you this.”

Elliot (not taking it): “Why would I want a pineapple?”

Conundrum (sighing dramatically): “Because, Elliot, pineapples are complicated. They look impenetrable, but inside, they’re all sweetness and acid—like love. Like longing. Like... Felicity.”

Elliot froze. Claire raised an eyebrow, suddenly far more awake.

Claire: “Did you just say—”

Conundrum (ignoring her, slumping down into their entryway like a man surrendering to gravity): “You know, I thought I was the only one who noticed. I thought I knew something no one else knew. I, the great God of Conundrum, keeper of paradox and questions without answers, knew. Knew her chaos. Knew her smile wasn’t for everyone.”

Elliot (hesitating, awkwardly looking back at Claire): “Uh, you want some water or something?”

Conundrum waved him off, his arm flopping like a marionette’s.

Conundrum: “Felicity. Felicity!” (He grinned, though it looked broken at the edges.) “A name that dances, doesn’t it? You can’t say it without smiling. And yet...”

He trailed off, staring at the pineapple as though it held the answers to life’s deepest mysteries. Claire crouched next to him, voice unusually soft.

Claire: “And yet what?”

Conundrum looked up at her—eyes clearer now, a rare moment of sincerity cutting through his drunken haze.

Conundrum: “And yet, she wasn’t mine to know.”

The room held its breath.

Elliot, arms crossed, sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

Elliot: “You know, Conundrum, this reminds me of a story.”

Conundrum perked up slightly, blinking slowly like a cat. “A story?”

Elliot: “Yeah, about someone who thought they were the only one who knew something. Let’s call him... Greg.”

Claire (whispering): “Not Greg again...”

Elliot (ignoring her, launching into storyteller mode): “Greg worked at a library. A small one. Mostly used by retirees and bored kids after school. Now, Greg—he found something. A book. A rare one, tucked away on a forgotten shelf. Leather binding, no title. Inside? Poems. Weird ones. Written in handwriting that looked like it belonged to someone who’d stayed up for five days straight, just scribbling thoughts. And Greg—Greg thought this book was his secret.”

Conundrum (softly, clutching the pineapple): “It wasn’t, was it?”

Elliot shook his head. “Nope. Turns out the book had been left there on purpose. A local poet, trying to get people to find it and share it. Greg thought it was his alone, but it was never meant to be a secret. Some things aren’t. Some things are meant to be seen, to be shared—even if we wish otherwise.”

The room was quiet.

Conundrum looked down at the pineapple one more time, then set it gently beside him.

Conundrum: “She wasn’t mine to know...”

Claire patted him on the shoulder, awkwardly. “Hey. Maybe you should get some sleep.”

Conundrum chuckled bitterly. “Sleep? Ha! What a novel solution.”

Elliot: “You’re not taking the pineapple back with you?”

Conundrum (waving a hand): “Consider it... a gift. Or a metaphor. Or breakfast.”

Claire: “You’re taking an Uber home.”

Conundrum: “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just... find my way.”

And with that, he shuffled out the door, jacket trailing behind him like a fallen flag. The sound of his steps echoed down the hallway.

Elliot closed the door and looked at Claire.

Elliot: “Well. That wasn’t weird at all.”

Claire stared at the pineapple sitting forlornly on the floor.

Claire: “Do we... keep it?”

Elliot (picking it up): “I guess? I mean, it is breakfast.”

From somewhere far off, faintly through the window, they could hear the sound of a goat bleating.

[End Scene]

[retcon:1]