Goldfish Days

I shuffled into Mr. Henderson's Pet Emporium feeling like a straight-up zombie. Three hours of sleep after finishing that history paper would do that to you. The air conditioning blasted against my skin as I clocked in, déjà vu hitting hard—this was my entire summer: fish food, fluorescent lights, and the same terrible pop playlist on repeat.

And then Marcus walked in.

My palms immediately started sweating. Like, actual embarrassing amounts. Marcus Chen, varsity basketball captain, the guy whose locker was three down from mine, the one I'd been lowkey crushing on since freshman orientation. He was wearing his jersey and everything, looking like he'd just come from practice.

"Hey," he said, all casual, like my heart wasn't doing jumping jacks in my chest. "You work here?"

"Yeah," I managed, wiping my palms on my uniform apron like that would help. "What's up?"

He gestured toward the largest fish tank in the store. "My mom's making me get a companion for my sister's betta fish. Apparently they get lonely? I don't know, she read it on some fish forum."

I led him to the goldfish section, still not fully processing that Marcus Chen was standing two feet from me, talking about fish loneliness.

"This one's actually kind of cool," I said, pointing to a fat orange goldfish that kept staring at us. "I call him Greg. He's got major main character energy."

Marcus laughed, and I swear my soul left my body for a second. "Greg the goldfish. Perfect."

As I netted Greg into the plastic bag, Marcus leaned against the counter. "You know, I always thought you seemed cool in school. Like, you're always reading during lunch, head in your own world. That's kind of badass."

I looked up, shocked. "You noticed?"

"Yeah," he said, and suddenly his voice got quieter. "I feel like a zombie most days too. Basketball, grades, everyone expecting me to be this perfect student-athlete guy. Sometimes I wish I could just... I don't know, be a goldfish in a tank. Swim around, eat flakes, not have to worry about college apps or whether I'm disappointing everyone."

I stared at him, really seeing him for the first time. The guy behind the jersey, the actual person who felt things just like I did.

"Greg would be lucky to have you," I said, handing over the fish bag. Our fingers brushed, and my palms were definitely sweating again, but I didn't even care.

"Thanks," he said, then paused. "Hey, maybe I could come visit Greg? Check in on how he's settling in? You know, for fish welfare purposes."

I smiled. "Absolutely. Anytime."

As Marcus walked out with Greg the goldfish, I looked down at my hands—still a little clammy, still a little shaky—and for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. I felt wide awake.