Goldfish at the Deep End

The pool water shimmered like liquid blue Jell-O, reflecting the twinkle lights strung up for Maya's birthday bash. Everyone was doing that thing where they act simultaneously cool and terrified—half-submerged, clutching red solo cups like lifelines.

I floated near the edge, fully clothed (minus shoes, because apparently that's where Maya draws the line for "being chill"), watching the crowd do its complicated social dance. That's when I spotted it—a solo goldfish in a mason jar centerpieces, looking as out of place as I felt.

"You're not gonna swim?" Jared asked, sliding up beside me. Jared, who'd been my best friend since seventh grade, but ever since he made varsity soccer, our conversations had been feeling increasingly… watered down. Like someone kept diluting us with each new friend group he joined.

"Maybe later," I lied, staring at the goldfish. It kept doing laps against the glass, like it was trying to swim to somewhere that didn't exist.

"That's depressing," Jared said, following my gaze. "It's just one fish. They're supposed to, like, have friends."

Something in my chest twisted. "Yeah. Guess they didn't get the memo about being social animals."

Jared bumped my shoulder with his. For a second, it felt like old times. But then his phone buzzed—someone tagged him in something—and the moment dissolved like sugar in warm water.

An orange balloon drifted past us, escaped from somewhere, bobbing on the pool's surface. The goldfish followed it with its mouth opening and closing, like it was trying to say something. Like we all were, just opening and closing our mouths, hoping someone would actually listen.

"Hey," Jared said suddenly, not looking at his phone for once. "You wanna get out of here? Go get boba? Just us?"

The goldfish did a little flip.

"Yeah," I said, pulling myself out of the water. "Yeah, let's bounce."

Behind us, the orange balloon kept floating. And somewhere in that jar, a goldfish finally stopped swimming against the glass.