Goldfish Confessions

Another morning, another choking hazard. I stood at the kitchen counter gagging on my mom's latest obsession — these horse-pill sized vitamin D supplements she swore would fix everything from my posture to my social life. 'You're in your growth spurt, Leo,' she'd say, as if taking a giant pill would magically make me six feet tall and actually confident.

I fed Bubbles instead. My goldfish was basically my therapist, mostly because she couldn't interrupt me with useless advice. 'They're playing padel after school,' I told her, watching her follow my finger against the glass. 'It's supposed to be casual, but Maya's gonna be there and I haven't played since seventh grade gym class when I accidentally hit Jordan in the face with a racquet.'

Bubbles just kept swimming, because that's what goldfish do. They don't care about social dynamics or how your stomach literally twists into knots when your crush walks past your locker.

The padel court was basically where reputations went to survive or die. It was like tennis but cooler, faster, and with walls you could ricochet shots off — which sounded terrifying when you were already uncoordinated. I showed up wearing my older brother's old athletic gear, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Everyone else had matching outfits and actual padel racquets. I had a tennis racket I'd found in the garage.

'Dude, you ready?' Marcus called out, and I was absolutely not ready, but I said yeah because that's what you do when you're fifteen and terrified of being uncool.

The game was a disaster. I missed every ball. My shoes squeaked way too much. But then, somehow, I hit this one shot — perfect angle, bounced off the back wall, landed right in the corner. Everyone went quiet. Maya actually looked impressed.

'Okay, Leo, that was actually kind of fire,' she said, and my brain short-circuited. Fire. She called my shot fire.

We ended up sitting on the curb afterward, talking about nothing and everything. Maya's cable TV at home had been out for weeks, she complained. Her parents wouldn't fix it because they were 'too analog,' which was embarrassing when everyone at school was discussing the latest shows and she couldn't watch them.

'I can fix it,' I heard myself saying. 'Cables are basically my thing. My dad made me learn.'

She looked at me for a second, then smiled. 'You'd do that?'

'Yeah.' I swallowed. 'It's no big deal.'

That night, I told Bubbles about it while she did laps around her little castle. 'I think I'm gonna get to hang out with Maya again,' I whispered, like it was a secret. 'And not just because her HDMI cable is loose.'

My mom walked in, holding out my evening vitamin. I took it without complaining. Some things were still annoying, but maybe they were worth it if they got you to moments like this — sitting on a curb with someone who thought your weird skills were actually kind of cool, even if you were still the world's worst padel player.

Bubbles swam to the front of the tank, like she understood. And that was enough.