Goldfish Bowl Anxiety
Maya pressed her back against the cool bathroom tile, heart still **running** a marathon after escaping the living room.
Who knew a house party could feel this much like a performance? Outside, muffled bass thumped against the door, reminding her of all the social awkwardness she'd dodged by fleeing to the bathroom. Someone had shouted "Maya's being weird again" right before she made her exit. Whatever.
On the counter, a solitary **goldfish** circled its bowl, orange scales shimmering in the dim light. It swam in endless loops, trapped yet somehow peaceful.
"At least someone's having a chill Friday," Maya muttered.
She'd text her actual **friend** Kai back home, but her phone had died forty minutes ago. Kai would've texted something like "why are you even at this party, you hate people" followed by a skull emoji. Kai got her—unlike these performative acquaintances who only talked to her when they needed homework answers or wanted someone to make fun of.
Maya fished the chewable **vitamin** C from her pocket—her pretend courage pill. The sour burst made her wince, but she needed something to ground her that wasn't just standing in someone else's bathroom hiding from a room full of people she'd known since elementary school but couldn't actually remember ever having a real conversation with.
The mirror reflected her carefully constructed cool-kid expression slipping.
What was she even doing here? Trying to prove she wasn't the same quiet girl from middle school? Desperate to show she'd "blossomed" over summer break?
The goldfish did another lap, completely unbothered by existential crises or social hierarchies.
Maya exhaled. Maybe the goldfish had the right idea—just keep swimming in whatever circle you're stuck in, make it work for you, don't let anyone else define your tank size.
She straightened her shirt, checked her reflection. Okay. She could survive this. Or she could walk out the front door, catch the bus home, and text Kai from her landline like a weirdo.
Her racing heart slowed, matching the fish's gentle rhythm. The front door it was.