Goldfish & Ghosts

Maya's Halloween party was supposed to be legendary. Instead, I stood against the basement wall feeling like a zombie—three hours of sleep and way too much iced coffee will do that to you. My phone buzzed in my palm, lighting up with notifications I couldn't care less about.

"Nice hat," someone said.

I looked up. It was Riley, the girl from my English class who always wore black nail polish. She was gesturing at the ridiculous fedora I'd grabbed from my dad's closet ten minutes before leaving my house. Parent emergency + costume party = fashion disaster.

"Thanks. I'm going for 'suburban dad tries to be cool.'"

She laughed. Actual laugh. "Nailed it."

We ended up on the back porch, escaping the thumping bass and what smelled like sweaty teenagers mixed with cheap punch. I found myself telling her about Rick—my goldfish who'd died that morning. Seven years of companionship, gone because I forgot to feed him before school.

"That's rough," Riley said, not making fun of me like I expected. "I had a fish once. Named him Pizza. He lasted three days."

"Pizza?"

"I was seven. My naming game has improved."

She pulled out her iPhone, opened a photo, and showed me—tiny turtle sitting on a rock. "Meet Taco. He's three months strong."

"Taco," I repeated. "I see your naming game is exactly the same."

"Shut up," she grinned, shoving my shoulder gently.

Something shifted. The zombie feeling faded, replaced by something warm and fluttery that definitely wasn't the caffeine. We sat there while my phone kept lighting up in my pocket—Snapchats, group chats, the constant digital FOMO that usually ruled my life.

I didn't check it once.

"You know," Riley said, breaking the comfortable silence, "Rick probably had a good life. Seven years is solid for a fish."

"Yeah. He saw me through middle school. That's basically a war zone."

"Same," she said softly. And that was it—the acknowledgment that we were both just trying to survive.

Inside, the countdown to midnight started. But on that porch, under cheap string lights that kept flickering, I felt more awake than I had in weeks. My phone buzzed again. I turned it off.

"Want to get Taco some food tomorrow?" Riley asked. "There's this pet store downtown—"

"Yes," I said, probably too quickly. "Like, a thousand percent yes."

Her answering smile was worth every awkward moment of the night. Even the fedora.