Connection Lost

Maya's gonna be here in ten minutes and the HDMI cable is dead. Again.

I'm behind my aunt's ancient TV, tangled in wires like an idiot, sweating through my favorite black hoodie. The plan was simple: stream the new horror game, impress Maya with my elite gaming skills, finally make a move after months of TikTok flirting that goes absolutely nowhere in real life.

Instead, I'm fighting with a cable that's seen better decades while my aunt's demon cat—Mr. Whiskers, ironic naming choice—keeps jumping onto the entertainment center and knocking over my carefully arranged RGB lights.

"Dude, NOT cool," I mutter, shooing him away for the third time.

Mr. Whiskers gives me the look all cats give when they're judging your entire existence. Then he trots over to the goldfish bowl on the coffee table, tail flicking with chaotic energy.

The goldfish—Goldie, because my aunt's creativity peaks at puns—floats there, doing absolutely nothing, living her best transparent life. And suddenly I'm jealous of a fish.

My phone buzzes. Maya: outside!

Panic mode: ACTIVATED.

I grab a spare cable from my bag, jam it in, pray to whatever god handles teenage disasters. The TV flickers, then—BAM. Static rainbow colors. Close enough.

Maya walks in as I'm frantically arranging throw pillows to hide the mess of wires. She's wearing that oversized jacket I like, the one with the patches. Her hair's messy in that way that looks effortless but probably took twenty minutes.

"Hey!" She grins, holding up a bag. "Brought snacks. I don't play horror games without compensation."

Mr. Whiskers chooses that moment to knock over the goldfish bowl.

Everything happens in slow motion. Water everywhere. Goldie flopping on the rug. Maya dropping her chips. Me screaming something ridiculous like "THE FISH!"

We both dive for Goldie. Our hands touch. She's warm and I'm hyperaware that mine are probably gross and clammy.

"Got her!" Maya scoops up Goldie and drops her into a random drinking glass I left on the table. Goldie swims around, seemingly unfazed by her near-death experience.

We sit there, breathless, water dripping from the table to the carpet. Then Maya starts laughing. Not polite laughter—real, bent-over, can't-breathe laughter.

"Your face," she gasps. "You looked like you were about to cry over a fish."

"I WAS about to cry over a fish. That's my aunt's fish, she'll literally kill me."

"Well," she says, looking at me differently, "at least you're passionate."

The gaming stream never happens. Instead, we spend three hours sitting on the floor, eating rescued chips, watching Goldie swim in her temporary glass apartment, talking about everything and nothing while Mr. Whiskers judges us from the bookshelf.

Sometimes the cable fails. Sometimes the fish almost dies. Sometimes your stupid plan falls apart and it's absolutely fine.

Better than fine, actually.