Goldfish and the Padel Court

I felt like a zombie shuffling through third period, my skull doing that weird throbbing thing after staying up until 3 AM scrolling through Noah's Instagram story archive. Again. My mom shoved a vitamin D gummy at me as I ran to the bus, yelling something about how my generation would all have rickets if it weren't for her vigilance.

"You look dead," Priya said, sliding into the seat beside me. "Rough night?"

"Rough life," I muttered, watching Noah and his friends laugh across the cafeteria. He was leaning against the lockers like he owned them, wearing that stupidly perfect green hoodie that matched his eyes.

The new Padel unit in PE was my personal hell. Everyone else was hitting the ball with natural grace while I flailed like a dying fish. Coach kept saying "athletic build" like it was a compliment, but I knew he meant "why can't this tall girl coordinate her limbs?"

"You're overthinking it," Noah said suddenly, appearing at my side during practice. He smelled like cinnamon gum and confidence. "Here, try this."

His hand brushed mine when he demonstrated the grip. My brain short-circuited. I hit the ball so hard it bounced off the ceiling.

"Or... that works too," he said, grinning. "Nice arm, zombie girl."

I thought I'd die of embarrassment until I found myself at his house that weekend, supposedly studying AP Bio but mostly watching his pet goldfish swim endless circles in its bowl.

"His name is Philip," Noah said. "He's been alive for three years, which is longer than any relationship I've had."

"That's... depressing," I said.

"Nah. He's got it figured out. Swim, eat, repeat. No overthinking."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt my vitamin-deficient heart do something weird. "You should come play padel with us sometime. My friends think you're cool."

"Your friends think I'm the girl who hit the ceiling."

"Exactly," he said. "No one forgets that."

Maybe, just maybe, being memorable wasn't the worst thing. And maybe zombies could wake up after all.