Goldfish in the Lightning

The goldfish was supposed to live forever. That's what Jordan said when he won it for me at the spring carnival, the night everything between us felt possible, like we were the main characters in some indie romance movie. Six months later, Jordan's ghosting my texts, and I'm watching Goldie swim in frantic circles like she knows something I don't.

I feel like a zombie most days now—trudging through AP Chem, scrolling TikTok until my eyes burn, letting my grades slip because what's the point when the person who made everything feel bright just... vanishes? My mom keeps asking if I'm okay, and I keep saying yeah, just tired, because how do you explain that your chest feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with sleep?

Then the storm hits Tuesday. I'm in my room, messing with the ethernet cable because the WiFi's being trash again, when lightning strikes so close the room goes white. Goldie's bowl shimmers like caught breath. And in that flash, I see it—Jordan's not coming back. Not because I did something wrong, but because people change like weather, and sometimes you just get caught in the downpour.

I sit there in the dark, thunder rumbling like the earth's stomach, and it hits me: this is what growing up feels like. It's not the big moments they show in movies. It's sitting alone with a carnival goldfish at 2 AM, finally understanding that some endings aren't failures. They're just... beginnings that don't look like beginnings yet.

I text Jordan one last time: hope you're good. Then I turn off my phone, watch Goldie swim her small, determined circles, and wait for the next lightning flash—no longer afraid of what it might show me.