Glass Walls

The corporate gala swirled around Martin like water he couldn't swim through. Forty-seven years old and still climbing the pyramid, pushing upward past colleagues who'd long since stopped caring whether they reached the apex or got crushed along the way. His wife Elena had left him three months ago—said she was tired of being the support beam while he built his monument to ambition.

He found himself staring at a massive tank near the bar. Inside, a solitary goldfish naviged its crystal prison, opening and closing its mouth in silent screams. The creature's orange scales caught the venue's harsh lighting, creating small galaxies of reflection against the glass.

"They say they have three-second memories," a woman said beside him. Martin turned to find Sarah from Accounting, holding two champagne flutes. "Every lap around the tank is a new adventure."

Martin accepted the drink she offered. "Must be nice. No past to haunt you. No future to dread."

"Spoken like a man who's had one too many," she said, but her smile was kind.

He'd been swimming in debt since the divorce. The house, the alimony, the facade of success he maintained like a rotting dam. The goldfish pressed its nose against the glass, as if trying to reach them.

"You ever wonder," Martin said, "if we're all just in different sized tanks?"

Sarah's expression softened. "You okay, Martin?"

He watched the goldfish complete another circuit of its prison. "No. But I will be."

The goldfish turned, its tail creating ripples that distorted their reflections, making them appear as if they were the ones swimming—trapped, beautiful, and utterly forgotten.