Goldfish at the End of Everything

The goldfish circled his bowl endlessly, the same graceful loop he'd been completing for three years. Marcus watched from his ergonomic chair, caught in the same hypnotic rhythm, while outside his window the city of Seattle turned gray with winter rain.

"You're like a zombie," Sarah had told him that morning, pulling on her coat. "Just going through the motions. I can't do it anymore."

She'd left behind her half-eaten orange on the counter, its bright segments exposed like a small wound.

Marcus worked at Bear Creek Financial, analyzing portfolio risks that meant nothing to him anymore. His boss, a massive man everyone called "the Bear" behind his back, had called him into his office earlier that day.

"Marcus, son, you look like death warmed over," the Bear had said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "Go home. Sleep. Figure out whatever's eating you alive."

Now it was midnight, and Marcus was still at his desk, the goldfish bowl catching the reflection of his computer screen. The fish—cleverly named "Fish" by his seven-year-old nephew years ago—paused at the glass, staring at him with mute understanding.

"She left me," Marcus whispered to the fish. "She said I'm already gone."

The orange sat in his briefcase, slowly oxidizing, its citrus scent escaping when he'd opened it earlier. It reminded him of their first date, how she'd peeled one with delicate fingers, laughing at his bad jokes.

He remembered the Bear's words. "Whatever's eating you alive."

Marcus stood up, carried the goldfish bowl to the window. The city stretched below him, alive with a million other lonely hearts. He wasn't a zombie. Not yet. Somewhere in this city, Sarah was probably awake too, missing him, hating that she missed him.

The goldfish swam toward the glass, waiting for food, trusting the morning would come.

Marcus turned off his computer, picked up the orange, and walked out into the rain.