Goldfish & Goodbyes

The cat—Mittens, because twelve-year-old me had zero creativity—sat on my windowsill, judging my life choices through yellow slitted eyes. She'd been watching me pack for three hours, probably calculating how many days until she could reclaim her territory from whoever inherited this room.

"You're literally going to a whole new school and you're still not packed?" Maya stood in my doorway, holding a vitamin water bottle like it was the key to survival. My best friend since third grade, now acting like she couldn't wait for me to leave. The vibes were off. Way off.

"I'm packed. I'm just... saying goodbye to things."

"Things? Like what?" She gestured at my room like it was a museum exhibit of someone she used to know.

My eyes landed on the goldfish bowl. Bubbles had been with me through awkward phases, bad haircuts, and the time I tried to start a TikTok account and immediately deleted everything. Now he was just floating there, living his best fish life while mine was imploding.

"Remember when we差点 put that goldfish in the bathtub?" Maya's voice softened, just a little. "Thought he'd have more room to swim."

"He would've died," I said. "Some things need small spaces to feel safe."

The silence stretched, thick and weirdly heavy. We'd been fighting all week—little things that kept escalating. She'd made new friends over summer camp. I'd gotten into that art program she'd wanted. Suddenly we were strangers who knew each other's deepest secrets.

"You're not gonna text me when you're gone, are you?" She sounded almost angry about it.

"Of course I will. We're still..." What? Us? The dynamic duo? The terrifying twosome who'd once glued our hands together in sixth grade because we read about it in a book and thought it would be hilarious?

"That vitamin water's probably expired," I said, deflecting because confrontation wasn't my thing.

Maya looked at the bottle, then at me, and finally at the cat, who'd started grooming herself with elaborate indifference.

"You know what's messed up?" She said suddenly. "I bought this because you told me last year that vitamin C helps when you're stressed about change. And now I'm the one who's freaking out that you're leaving."

The honesty hit like a physical thing.

"You could come with me," I blurted. "To help unpack. We could get bubble tea."

"I'm supposed to meet Jenna at the mall in twenty minutes."

"Right. Jenna." The new friend.

Maya shifted, opening the vitamin water and taking a deliberate sip. "But Jenna's not going anywhere. And you're literally moving across the city."

"Across the city is not across the country."

"It's still different."

"Yeah. Different."

The cat jumped off the windowsill and landed with practiced grace, winding around Maya's ankles like she hadn't spent the last hour plotting world domination.

"Fine," Maya said. "I'll come. But you're paying for the bubble tea."

"Deal."

Bubbles swam to the front of his bowl, opening and closing his tiny mouth like he had something important to say. Maybe fish wisdom: Change isn't bad. Growth is messy. And sometimes the smallest things—fish, cats, friendship—require the biggest care. Or maybe he just wanted food.

"Hey," Maya said at the door, turning back like she'd forgotten something crucial. "You're gonna kill that transfer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're not Bubbles. You don't stay in one place."

The cat resumed her position on the windowsill, satisfied with having orchestrated something, as usual. I grabbed my phone.

Bubble tea with my oldest friend. One last adventure before everything changed.

Growth isn't linear. It's circular, like a goldfish swimming in loops, heading back to where you started but seeing everything differently. I grabbed my backpack. The summer wasn't over yet. Neither were we.