Goldfish Boy

My goldfish is dead again.

I stare at the bowl on my nightstand where the orange scales float motionless, and I wonder why I even bother. This is the third one this semester. Mom says I have a "black thumb," which isn't even a real thing, but whatever.

The front door slams downstairs. That's Leo's signature move - announcing his arrival before he even says hey. We've been best friends since seventh grade when he accidentally spilled chocolate milk on my new white jeans in the cafeteria and I didn't even cry. That's friendship, right there.

"Yoo, Maya!" he yells from the bottom of the stairs. "You alive?"

"Barely," I mutter, but he probably can't hear me through the floor.

Leo appears in my doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed even though it's 2 PM on a Saturday. His hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in the back - cat hair, he always calls it, because his cat Nora sleeps on his pillow every night. The irony isn't lost on me: Leo, this tough guy on the basketball team, completely owned by a fluffball with attitude issues.

"Third one, huh?" Leo nods at the bowl.

"They keep dying on me. I'm cursed."

He flops onto my bed and stares at the ceiling. "Maybe they just know they're boring. Goldfish are basically the NPCs of the pet world."

"Excuse me, Captain Ahab had a whale. I have three consecutive goldfish who chose me as their final destination. That's practically destiny."

Leo laughs, and it's that weird sound he makes when he's trying not to laugh but failing - like a snort but cuter, somehow. And suddenly my chest feels tight, like I've swallowed something I can't spit back up. Because the truth is, I've been lying to myself about a lot of things lately.

Like how I don't mind when he falls asleep during movies we're supposed to be watching. Or how I saved every stupid meme he's ever sent me. Or how last week at Maya's party, when everyone was playing Seven Minutes in Heaven and his name got called, I actually considered for a ridiculous second that it might be with me.

Lightning cracks through my window - real lightning, outside, forking across the sky like someone drew it with a shaky hand. The storm we've been predicting all week finally breaking.

"You okay?" Leo asks, and his voice is different now. Lower.

And then I'm saying it before I can chicken out: "Do you ever feel like you're waiting for something to happen, but you don't know what?"

He rolls onto his side, facing me. "All the time."

"I feel like a goldfish," I admit. "Just swimming in circles. Same tank, same castle, same fake plant. Going nowhere."

Leo studies my face like he's looking for something he's never noticed before. "You know what's crazy about goldfish?" he says softly. "They grow to the size of their tank. If you put them in a pond, they get huge. Maybe you just need a bigger tank."

The storm outside is full-on now, rain lashing against my window in rhythm with my heart. And I'm thinking about bigger tanks and swimming somewhere new and how Leo's eyes have always been the exact color of storm clouds.

"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe I just need to find the right pond."

He smiles, and something electric passes between us - real lightning this time, not the sky kind.

"We could look together," he says. "If you want."

And I realize I don't need to be a goldfish anymore. I'm ready to be something else. Something braver.