Goldfish in the Palm of Your Hand

Maya's palms were sweating—that next-level dampness that makes your phone screen glitch when you try to look casual. She leaned against the kitchen island at Jake's party, watching the goldfish in the bowl on the counter swim in endless, pointless circles. Same loop, over and over. Kind of like her social life.

"You gonna eat that orange slice or just hold it hostage?"

Maya jumped. It was Marcus, who sat next to her in AP Bio and somehow made wearing a flannel shirt look like a personality statement. She shrugged, popping the slice into her mouth. The citrus burn hit her tongue.

"Nervous?" he asked, not mocking. Just curious.

"Obviously," she said. "First party. My mom thinks I'm at Leo's house studying for chem. Which we both know is not happening because Leo's currently chugging Mountain Dew in the backyard."

Marcus laughed. It was a real laugh, not the performative one everyone else was doing. "Wanna know something? I threw up before I came here. Like, actual呕吐.

Maya stared at him. "No way."

"Way. My dog, Buster, looked at me like I'd betrayed him. Then he licked my ankle and I felt better. Dogs are high-key superior to humans."

A girl stumbled past, knocking into the goldfish bowl. The fish did a frantic lap. Maya's heart did something similar.

"That fish has more rizz than both of us combined," Marcus said. "He's just vibing. No overthinking. Just swimming."

"Wait," Maya said. "Did you just say 'rizz' unironically?"

"I'm reclaiming it. Like irony but with more emotional damage."

Someone yelled "BEAR HUG!" from the living room. A guy in a shirt that said DAD TAX tackled his friend into a crushing embrace. The whole room erupted. Maya flinched.

"You good?" Marcus asked softly.

"Loud noises. It's a thing."

He nodded, like this made perfect sense. "Wanna bail? There's a 7-Eleven two blocks over. We could get Slurpees and complain about how everyone at this party is trying so hard it's physically painful."

Maya looked at the goldfish one last time, still swimming its determined little circles. She looked at the bear hug happening in the living room, the orange wedge she'd decimated, her damp palm pressed against the cold counter.

"Yes," she said. "Absolutely."

They slipped out the back door, past the dog barking at nothing, into the cool night air. Behind them, the party roared on. But Maya's palms were finally dry.