Goldfish in a Polyester Orange Suit

The carnival smelled like fried dough and desperation, exactly the kind of Friday night Riley usually avoided. But here they were, winning a goldfish while wearing a blinding orange polyester suit from Goodwill — their new "fuck it" era manifesting in questionable fashion choices.

"You're gonna kill it," said Maya, Riley's oldest friend, raising an eyebrow at the plastic bag containing a fish the size of a thumb.

"His name is Lightning."

"That fish has three seconds of memory and zero ambition."

"Stop projecting onto my fish, Maya."

Riley took Lightning home, set up the borrowed bowl in their room, and lay on their bed watching the fish swim in pointless circles while lightning flashed outside the window. The storm had knocked out the WiFi, leaving Riley alone with thoughts they'd been dodging for months.

They were sixteen, and they were tired. Tired of squeezing into jeans that didn't fit, tired of laughing at jokes that weren't funny, tired of performing a version of themselves that felt like someone else's homework assignment.

Lightning swam to the surface, opened and closed his tiny mouth.

"I get it, bud," Riley whispered. "What are we doing?"

Their phone buzzed — Maya had sent an Instagram story of them at the carnival, looking ridiculous in the orange suit, fish in hand. The caption read: my friend, choosing joy for once.

Riley stared at it. They'd spent so long worrying about who they were supposed to be that they'd forgotten how to be who they actually were. The orange suit was loud. The fish was unnecessary. The combination was unhinged.

It was also the first time in months they'd genuinely smiled.

The lightning storm raged on, and Riley made a decision. They texted Maya: wearing the suit to school tomorrow. bio presentation is now about Lightning.

Maya responded immediately: you're my favorite person alive.

Riley fell asleep watching the fish swim, still wearing the orange suit, for the first time in a long time not afraid of tomorrow.