Goldfish in the Starting Blocks

The orange sky painted the track field in those last moments before sunrise, that weird half-light where everything feels possible and totally screwed at the same time. I'd been running since before my feet hit the ground - literally, according to my mom.

"You're gonna be state champion, Leo," Coach Martinez had said yesterday, his hand squeezing my shoulder like he was molding clay. "You've got the fire."

The fire. More like the burning.

My phone buzzed against the bench - notification from the group chat. Everyone hype-posting about今天的 meet. Memes, praying hands, that skull emoji that meant "we're dead." Typical Thursday energy.

What they didn't post about was how I'd been sneaking out of morning practice to sit in my room, watching my little brother's orange goldfish swim in endless circles. A ten-dollar pet from the fair, this fish had become my accidental therapist.

Goldfish had a three-second memory, supposedly. Lucky. That fish could forget every mistake immediately. Meanwhile, I was still haunted by that race in seventh grade when I'd tripped over my own untied shoelace in front of everyone. The video had three hundred views.

"Leo! You okay?" Coach's voice cut through my spiral. "Race starts in five!"

I'd been running toward something my whole life - college recruitment, my dad's pride, something to put in the yearbook beside my name. But suddenly, staring at that fish last night, it had hit me: goldfish only grow as big as their tank allows. What if I was the one keeping myself small?

The starting gun cracked.

I ran. Not like I was chasing something. Just because my legs knew what to do when everything else in my life felt like a fever dream we were all pretending wasn't happening.

The finish line ribbon - orange, of course it was orange - flapped ahead like it was daring me to catch it. And in that moment, I wasn't running away from anything or toward some future I couldn't control. I was just a body in motion, finally okay with not knowing where I'd land.

The goldfish was probably still swimming in circles when I crossed that line. But maybe, just maybe, circles weren't traps. Maybe they were just patterns, and the real move was noticing when you chose to make them.