Goldfish Gate

The thing nobody tells you about house-sitting for your Instagram-perfect cousin is that reality hits different. Maya's place was supposed to be easy money—feed the fish, walk the dog, chill. But standing in her living room at 2 AM, staring at her prize-winning **goldfish** floating belly-up, I knew I was cooked.

"You're overthinking," my best friend Kai said over FaceTime, my only lifeline since the WiFi kept cutting out. "Just replace it. Nobody counts fish scales."

Easier said than done. The pet store didn't open until 10, which meant surviving **Bear**—Maya's nightmare of a chocolate lab with zero chill and a talent for destruction. Already, he'd chewed through the charging **cable** for my phone (RIP, 15%) and somehow knocked over the **water** dispenser, creating a mini flood across the hardwood.

"You've got this," Kai lied. "Just tell him he's a good boy. Worked last time."

Last time was a hamster. This was a beast who'd already eaten my homework (literally) and was currently eyeing my sneakers like they were chew toys.

Morning couldn't come fast enough. I biked to the pet store in my pajama bottoms and Maya's borrowed sweatshirt, looking like the definition of "it's fine, I'm fine." The replacement goldfish cost three hours of babysitting money, but whatever. Desperation makes you do things.

Back at the house, Bear greeted me with a full-body wag that sent me sprawling into the wall. The fish swam, blissfully unaware they were impostors. And somehow—miraculously—Maya never noticed the difference.

"You're literally the best," she texted, tipping me extra. "Bear loves you."

I stared at my phone, now charging with a frayed cable, water stains still drying on the floor, and thought about how growing up is mostly just pretending you know what you're doing while everything falls apart around you. But hey, at least Bear was happy. And sometimes, that's enough.