Flash Flood

The bathroom mirror reflected everything I was trying to outrun. My hair, once the one thing I could control, hung in hopeless, knotted clumps around my face. Three hours ago, Marcus had sent *that* text — "ur cool and all but like, not my vibe" — and now here I was, surrounded by dye bottles on the tiled floor like little chemical soldiers.

"You're spiraling," I whispered to myself. But honestly? I'd been spiraling since seventh period when Maya, my actual best friend since forever, side-eyed me in the hallway like I'd personally invented cringe. The three of us had been this weird little ecosystem since orientation week, and now Marcus was sliding into Maya's DMs while leaving me on read.

I grabbed the box. Electric Sunset Blue. Because obviously.

My dog, Barnaby — a chunky golden retriever mix who judged my life choices from his bed in the corner — let out this concerned huff. Even he knew this was a bad idea. But I was sixteen and dramatic and my chest felt like it was collapsing inward, so bad ideas were basically my brand now.

Forty minutes later, my hair was the color of a bruise. I looked like a depressed mermaid. I loved it immediately.

"Sophie?" My mom's voice through the door. "Everything okay in there?"

"Just living my best life, Mom!"

The goldfish situation happened two days later. Marcus's mom made him dump his tank before their move to Seattle (classic), and suddenly I was the proud owner of Flash — a tiny, unimpressive orange fish who lived in a bowl on my desk, swimming in endless, meaningless circles. Maya had posted a TikTok of her and Marcus at Starbucks, captioned "coffee adventures ☕💕" and I was here, fundamentally single, with a fish who'd probably forget I existed every three seconds.

But here's what nobody tells you about having a goldfish when you're going through it: they're low-key meditative. Flash would just float there, doing his little fish thing, completely unbothered by the performance art that was my emotional state. He didn't care that Marcus and Maya were being weird. He didn't care that my hair made my grandmother ask if I was "going through a phase." He just wanted his flakes and his swim time.

"You're valid, Flash," I told him at 2 AM, phone face-down on my desk because I'd made the mistake of checking their stories again. "You're doing great."

Barnaby trotted in and rested his chin on my knee, and somehow, in this tiny moment with my ridiculous hair and my forgetful fish and my dog who loved me even when I was a mess, something shifted.

The next morning, I posted a selfie — blue hair, no filter, Flash visible in the background like the tiny king he was. The caption read simply: "new era who dis 💙"

Maya texted five minutes later. "ur hair looks actually sick tho??"

Marcus didn't reply. But Flash did another lap around his bowl, and Barnaby did that happy dog sigh, and I realized maybe I didn't need them to complete my ecosystem after all.