Goldfish Dreams & Wild Things

I've been running since freshman year, but not because I love it. Because if I stop moving, maybe I'll have to feel everything. Cross country coach calls me 'our little fox' — clever, quick, hard to catch. My parents think it's about college applications. My friends think it's about staying fit. Nobody knows the truth: I run to outrun the version of myself that feels wrong.

Last Tuesday, I'm four miles into a route through the woods behind the old soccer fields when I see it — an actual fox, red fur glowing like embers against the dead leaves. We lock eyes. It doesn't run. Neither do I. For ten seconds, I'm not the girl whose goldfish died because she forgot to feed it for three weeks while studying for AP Bio. I'm not the one who cried in the bathroom stall when Tyler called her try-hard at Megan's party. I'm just another wild thing, breathing, existing.

The fox dips its head, almost like a nod, then vanishes into brush.

I walk home. Don't run. Just walk.

Goldfish was supposed to be low-maintenance, right? That's what the PetSmart guy said when I bought him with birthday money from my grandma who doesn't know what fifteen-year-olds actually want. I named him Pancake because he was flat and orange and seemed resigned to his tiny castle with the fake plastic plant. He'd press his face against the glass, mouth opening and closing, like he was screaming soundlessly into the void.

I related to that fish way too much.

At dinner, my mom's going on about how running looks 'so good for college applications' and I almost laugh. Dad's nodding, proud of his focused daughter. They don't know I spent sixth period staring at the empty fishbowl in my room because I couldn't deal with flushing Pancake down the toilet like some Netflix trope. He's still in there, actually. Couldn't do it.

'Mariah?' Mom waves her fork. 'You okay?'

'Yeah.' I push rice around my plate. 'Just tired from practice.'

That night, I'm supposed to be writing an essay about character development in The Great Gatsby, but instead I'm Googling 'how to properly bury a fish' and 'what do foxes represent in dreams.' Then I'm grabbing my phone and opening TikTok, where I find myself watching this girl who vlogs about her midnight runs through the city, how she discovered herself in the spaces between breath and exhaustion, how running became her rebellion against everyone's expectations.

I lace up my shoes at 11:47 PM. Sneak out the window because the front door creaks and Mom's a light sleeper.

The suburbs are different in the dark. No cars. No pressure. Just me and the rhythm, my lungs burning in that way that feels like living. I end up at the park, the same route where I saw the fox, and I sit on the bench by the pond where people dump their unwanted pets like they're just debris.

I'm fishing something out of my pocket — Pancake, wrapped in tissue and a tiny cardboard box decorated with sharpie stars because that felt more dignified than the Ziploc bag he's been in for three days. I say something stupid like, 'Sorry I sucked at taking care of you, little dude.' Then I'm crying, actually sobbing, the ugly kind where your nose runs and you make sounds you didn't know you could make.

'I'm sorry I let you die because I was scared of failing a test,' I tell the water. 'I'm sorry I didn't know how to be alive without measuring everything.'

A rustle behind me. I turn. It's the fox again — or another one, who knows. She watches me with those too-human eyes, then trots closer, sits on her haunches like she's waiting for something.

'This is weird, right?' I ask her. 'This is definitely weird.'

She doesn't move. Just watches.

I lower Pancake's box into the water, gentle. It bobs. 'You were more than just a fish,' I whisper. 'You were the only thing I let myself care about when I was scared to care about anything.' The box sinks. Gone.

The fox dips her head. Same nod, same recognition.

I wake up the next morning and everything looks different. Brighter. Sharper. I skip cross country practice for the first time in two years, go to the pet store instead, and buy the biggest tank they have. Three neon tetras. One betta. Real plants.

'What's this?' Mom asks when she sees the setup in my room.

'I'm starting over,' I say. 'Better this time.'

She looks confused but nods. Dad stops asking about colleges. At school, when Tyler makes some comment during lunch, I don't smile awkwardly. I just stare until he looks away.

I still run. But now I run because I like how the air tastes at dawn, how the world feels new and mine. Sometimes I see the fox in the distance. She never comes close. She doesn't have to.

I know she's there. I know I'm wild too, underneath everything.

And that's enough.