Goldfish in the Glass

Maya's office goldfish, Burger, had been swimming lethargically for weeks—much like herself. The corporate vitamin supplements she took each morning promised energy, clarity, focus. They delivered nothing but expensive urine and the bitter taste of compromise.

Then she discovered the flash drive hidden in Julia's desk. Julia—her friend, her mentor, the woman who'd held her hair back after office holiday parties. The drive contained everything: Maya's performance reviews, her private Slack messages, even her therapist's name.

Corporate spy? Julia claimed she was protecting them both, gathering leverage against their sociopathic director. But the dates didn't lie—Julia had started collecting before the director arrived. Before Maya even joined the company.

"You think you're so authentic," Julia had said during their last coffee, watching Maya arrange her vitamin bottles on the table. "All that wellness, that mindfulness bullshit. It's just another performance."

Maya had laughed it off. Now she wondered if Julia was right. She'd spent five years curating herself like a carefully tended aquarium—controlled, predictable, safe. While outside, in the real ocean, people were eating each other alive.

Burger floated sideways in his bowl. Maya flushed him without ceremony, then packed Julia's file into her bag. Some friendships were like captive fish: they only looked healthy until you tried to set them free.