Carnival Goldfish

The goldfish peered at me through the plastic bag, its mouth opening and closing like it had something important to say. Probably that my life was officially mid.

'You're not actually gonna keep it, are you?' Marcus asked, spinning his baseball in that way that made me want to simultaneously melt and die. We'd been flirting at the dunk tank for, like, twenty minutes, and I was lowkey terrified I'd mess this up.

'Shut up, I'm naming him Poseidon,' I said, trying to channel confident energy instead of 'I literally just won a fish at the carnival' energy.

Marcus laughed—actually laughed, not the fake polite one he used when Jordan dropped his phone in the chem lab again. 'Poseidon? That's actually kinda sick.'

My heart did that thing where it forgets how to beat normally. This was the same Marcus who pitched a no-hitter against our rival school last week. The one everyone lowkey worshipped. And here he was, thinking my goldfish was sick.

'So,' he said, leaning against the prize counter, 'you doing anything later? Some of us might go swimming at Jordan's house if you wanted to...'

I could practically hear the blood rushing in my ears. Swimming. At Jordan's. With Marcus. My brain immediately flashed to every insecurity I'd ever had—my hair when it got wet, how I looked in a swimsuit, what if I said something cringe.

'Sure,' I managed, proud my voice didn't crack. 'That could be chill.'

'Money.' Marcus did finger guns. 'See you there, Poseidon's mom.'

As he walked away, goldfish bag swishing in my hand like a weird little trophy, I realized something: maybe being mid wasn't the worst thing. Sometimes the mid moments—the awkward carnival wins, the nervous invitations, the goldfish you didn't ask for but ended up keeping anyway—those were the ones that actually mattered.

Poseidon blew a bubble. I headed toward the exit, feeling weirdly light, like I was swimming through air instead of walking on solid ground.