Goldfish Courage

Maya's thumbs hovered over her cracked iPhone screen, the glow illuminating her darkened bedroom. Another notification. Another party she wasn't invited to. At 14, FOMO was basically her personality.

"At least you get me, right, Bubbles?" she whispered to the goldfish bowl on her dresser. The orange fish with the perpetually surprised expression did a little loop, its tail swishing through the neon plastic castle.

Friday at school, everything changed when Jake's older brother dared anyone to cross the fence at Miller's farm. "There's a bull in there," he'd said, laughing. "Bet nobody's got the guts to snap a selfie with it."

The challenge spread like wildfire. By lunch, #BullSelfie was trending. Maya's friends were all in—because obviously they were. Maya tried to laugh it off, but inside, her stomach twisted. She hated how her phone had become this constant reminder of everything she wasn't: brave, spontaneous, worth following.

That night, she stared at Bubbles swimming peacefully in his tiny kingdom. Something about his calm hit different. The fish didn't perform for likes. He just existed.

"You're literally out here living your best life, Bubbles," she muttered. "And I'm scared of a cow?"

Saturday dawned gray and drizzly. Maya grabbed her bike before she could overthink it, phone tucked in her pocket but silenced. The farm fence loomed ahead like some final boss level.

The bull was massive—a wall of muscle and muscle and muscle—tossing its head near the fence. Maya's heart hammered against her ribs. Her friends' laughter echoed in her head. *What if she fell? What if the bull charged? What if everyone roasted her forever?*

Then she thought of Bubbles, just swimming his truth every single day.

Maya didn't take a selfie. Instead, she sat in the mud and watched the bull breathe. It was kind of beautiful, actually—the way the mist curled around its horns, how it seemed so completely unbothered by her presence.

She pulled out her iPhone and recorded something else: the bull, quiet and majestic, with rain softening everything around them. No music, no filters, no caption.

Posted it. #JustHere.

Her phone buzzed nonstop for days. But for the first time, Maya didn't care about the notifications. She'd finally found something better than being seen.

She'd learned how to see.