Goldfish Don't Speak But They Listen

My goldfish, Fin, was the only one who knew about the crush I had on Lucas—the baseball player with the arm that could launch a ball into orbit and the smile that made my stomach do backflips. I'd spill everything to him through the glass of his bowl while he just floated there, judging me with those buggy eyes.

"You're going, Maya," Jordan insisted, flipping their orange hair dramatically. "It's the last beach bonfire of summer. Lucas will be there. You've been staring at him in AP Bio for like, four months. This is your moment."

I panicked. "I can't just show up alone. That's weird. That's 'I came here specifically to talk to you' weird."

"So bring a plus-one."

Which was how I ended up carrying a nervous chihuahua named Pickles down the shoreline while Jordan trailed behind me with a bag of stale marshmallows. The plan was simple: bring the dog, look casual, accidentally run into Lucas, and let conversation magically happen while Pickles provided an adorable distraction.

But the universe had other plans.

Pickles spotted a seagull and bolted, dragging me through the sand like a ragdoll. I crash-landed directly into Lucas, who was crouching near the shoreline, and my phone—clutched in my hand—flew from my grip and skittered across the sand.

"Whoa," Lucas said, grabbing my arm to steady me. His baseball cap was backwards. He smelled like ocean and coconut shampoo. "You okay?"

"Fine," I squeaked. "Pickles has opinions about birds."

We sat there for twenty minutes while my dog made friends with everyone on the beach and Lucas picked at a palm frond, talking about how nervous he was about varsity tryouts, how he hated how everyone expected him to be this confident athlete guy when he was actually freaking out inside.

"Funny," I said. "I thought you had it all figured out."

"Nah." He smiled, and this time it wasn't his fake confident smile. "Sometimes I wish I could just be a goldfish, you know? Just swim around and not overthink everything."

"I tell my goldfish everything," I admitted. "He's a terrible listener, though."

Lucas laughed, and the sound was better than any home run at any baseball game ever.

That night, I didn't get a dramatic confession or a movie-perfect kiss. But I got his number, and I got to see the real him—not the golden boy everyone assumed he was. And when I got home and told Fin about it, I swear he did a little flip of approval.

Some fish know everything.