Goldfish at Sunset

Sarah watches the goldfish circle the hotel pool's edge, orange flashes against turquoise water. David sits beside her, but not really beside her—not the way he was three months ago, before everything fell apart. The papaya she'd ordered at the cafe sits untouched on the table between them, its flesh the color of fresh bruises.

The water shimmers in the afternoon heat, a hypnotic canvas of light and movement. Soft reggae drifts from distant speakers, mixing with the crack of a baseball game from someone's radio—carried across the resort grounds on the wind. Each sound feels like it belongs to a different world.

"We're like zombies," David murmurs, almost to himself. "Just going through the motions."

Sarah turns, really looks at him. His exhaustion runs deeper than sleeplessness—it's settled in his bones, in the hollows beneath his eyes. She reaches across the space between them, her fingers brushing his hand.

"We're still here," she says. "That means something."

The goldfish continues its endless orbit, a tiny, silent testament to persistence. Sarah finally cuts into the papaya, its tropical sweetness filling the air. Beyond them, the baseball crowd roars over some invisible victory—a reminder that the world keeps spinning even when their own feels suspended.

She understands now why goldfish have such short memories. Sometimes, forgetting is its own form of survival. The baseball announcer's voice rises with the monotone rhythm of a man who's forgotten why words matter.

"I don't want to be a zombie," she says, testing the weight of each syllable.

David turns, eyes finding hers. Something flickers beneath his weariness—a spark that suggests he's still capable of feeling, of wanting more than this half-life they've been living.

"Then let's not be," he says.

The goldfish circles lazily, indifferent to human narratives. The baseball crowd roars again—a distant, collective cry that could mean anything at all. Sarah lifts the papaya to her lips, its sweet flesh overwhelming her senses. A small, deliberate act of being present.

The water catches the last light, turning gold around the orange fish swimming obliviously on.

"We're here," she repeats, firmer this time. "We're still here."

The baseball radio crackles as the crowd cheers—a sound that could be hope, or just noise, depending on how you listen to it.