Goldfish & Goodbyes

The cardboard box felt heavier than it should have, considering it only held a plastic bag filled with water and one depressed goldfish.

"You're really doing this?" Maya stood in my doorway, her goth eyeliner smudging in the humidity. She'd been my best friend since seventh grade, back when we both thought wearing mismatched socks was peak rebellion. Now she wore all black and listened to bands I'd never heard of, constantly reminding me that I was "selling out" by joining track.

"My mom's making me move his tank to the basement," I said, setting the box on my bed. "Something about the cat."

Smokey had arrived two weeks ago when my dad moved out. My mom's idea of coping mechanism. The cat had already tried to eat Finnick—my goldfish—twice.

"Running won't fix everything, you know." Maya leaned against my doorframe, arms crossed. "Practice is in twenty minutes. Coach Taylor is gonna bench you if you're late again."

"I'm not going."

Her eyes widened. "Since when? You've been talking about making varsity since freshman year. This is literally everything."

"I don't know. Maybe it's not." I dropped a flake of food into Finnick's bag. He swam to the top, his orange scales catching the afternoon light. "My dad's gone, Maya. My mom's depressed. And I'm out there running circles around a track like it matters."

She was quiet for a moment. "It matters to you. Or it did."

"Did it? Or was I just doing what was expected? Popular girl with the athlete boyfriend, letterman jacket, whole nine yards?" I gestured at my shelf, where my first-place medals from last season gathered dust. "None of it feels real anymore."

Maya stepped into my room and sat on the floor beside me. "Remember when we were twelve and you tried to teach me to run? I couldn't make it half a block without wheezing."

"You insisted your asthma was acting up."

"It wasn't asthma." She smiled faintly. "I just didn't want you to leave me behind. But you kept running anyway."

I looked at her—really looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes from staying up too late reading poetry. The way she always wore that chipped nail polish because she refused to care what people thought.

"You never asked me to stop," I said.

"I figured you'd come back. Eventually."

Smokey appeared in the doorway, tail twitching. He eyed Finnick's box with predatory interest.

"Cat wants your fish," Maya said.

"Yeah, well." I picked up the box. "Finnick's coming with me."

"To practice?"

"To your house. If your mom will let me crash there for a few days. I need to figure some stuff out."

Maya stood up, grinning. "She'll say yes. But you're feeding the cat."

"Deal."

"And you're not quitting track, by the way. Just... maybe take me with you sometimes?" She made a face. "I promise to wheeze dramatically."

I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. "Okay. But we're starting with walking."

"Walking's good." She picked up Finnick's box. "Walking's a solid start."