Goldfish in Orange Converse

The carnival goldfish was supposed to be dead by Monday. That's what my brother said when I won it — spent ten bucks tossing ping pong balls into tiny bowls, just because my crush was working the booth and kept smiling every time I missed. But the fish, which I'd inexplicably named Kevin, kept stubbornly swimming around its bowl on my dresser, orange fins flashing like tiny flames against the glass.

My mom said goldfish werestarter pets. Practice for real responsibility. But Kevin felt more like practice for disappointment, swimming in circles while I scrolled through Maya's Instagram, watching her live her best life at someone else's party.

"You're literally obsessed," my best friend Ty said, flopping onto my bed and knocking over a stack of cross country medals. "It's been two weeks since she ghosted you. You need to go running or something. Clear your head."

I laced up my orange Converses — the ones Maya had said were "actually kinda cute" that one time we talked for twenty minutes after practice — and headed out. Running was supposed to be my thing. Captain of the cross country team, state qualifiers, all that. But lately every step felt like I was running through molasses, like the ground knew I wasn't really going anywhere meaningful.

Three miles in, my phone buzzed. Maya. "Hey! U still up for that thing Saturday?"

I stopped running, lungs burning, heart suddenly racing for a completely different reason. The thing. She meant the thing. The thing I'd been too scared to confirm was actually happening.

"Yeah," I typed back, fingers shaking. "I'm up for it."

That night, I bought Kevin a bigger tank. He swam into the castle I'd added, fins glowing orange against the blue plastic. Maybe Kevin wasn't just surviving anymore. Maybe he was waiting for something good to happen, just like I'd been. And maybe sometimes, the things you think are dead or done or over — they just need a bigger tank.