Goldfish in the Rain

The plastic bag with the carnival goldfish sloshed against Maya's thigh as she sprinted down Maple Street, her converse slapping wet pavement. Thunder cracked overhead — actual, atmospheric lightning that matched the electric panic in her chest.

"Wait up!" Tyson's voice carried through the downpour. He'd been cute at the party, until his friends started doing shots and Maya realized she was the only one not playing along with the performative chaos. She'd grabbed the goldfish prize from the kitchen counter — some absurd party favor she'd won earlier — and bolted.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably Emma blowing up her phone with "where r u???" and "u can't just bail." Maya kept running.

The goldfish — a tiny, terrified flash of orange — swam in panicked circles. Same, she thought. This is us.

She ducked under the awning of a closed bodega, dripping wet. The bag fogged up with her breath. Inside, the fish pressed its snout against the plastic, staring at her with what looked distinctly like judgment.

"Don't look at me like that," Maya whispered. "You're the one who got caught."

Another lightning strike illuminated the street, turning the rain silver. For a second, she saw her reflection in the bodega window: makeup smudging, hair plastered to her face, holding a plastic fish like it was the most important thing in the world.

Tyson caught up to her, chest heaving. "Dude. What the hell."

"I couldn't do it," she said. "The fake drunk thing, the pretending, the whole —" She gestured vaguely at nothing. "It's exhausting."

"Then don't."

"But that's what you do, right? That's what everyone does."

Tyson leaned against the brick wall, rain dripping from his jawline. "Some people. Not everyone."

Maya looked at the goldfish. It had stopped swimming in circles and was now floating near the bottom, almost calm.

"I can't go back out there," she said.

"Then don't. We can go to my place. Order food. Watch this guy swim in circles."

"He's not a pet," Maya said, but she was already smiling. "He's a metaphor."

"For what?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

They started walking, and for the first time all night, Maya wasn't running anymore.