Goldfish & Lightning

The carnival goldfish bowl sat on my nightstand, a judgment-orange eye staring at me while I panic-scroll through Insta. Three days since Jordan dumped me via text—three days of my friends being weirdly chill about it, like I should've seen it coming.

"You need to get out," Maya had said yesterday, handing me a vitamin D supplement. "You're literally pale as a ghost. Go outside, touch grass."

So now I'm at the neighborhood pool, sitting on the edge with my feet in the water, watching my little sister Emma's goldfish dart around its temporary home in a mixing bowl. Mom's making surprise spaghetti carbonara and needed counter space.

The water's cold against my ankles, but I don't pull them out. There's something peaceful about watching this tiny creature living its best life, completely unaware that its entire existence is basically a series of small glass prisons.

"You okay?"

I jump. It's Lucas from my bio class, standing there with a towel slung over his shoulder, wet hair dripping. We've never actually talked, but I've caught him looking at me during lectures.

"Fine," I say. Too fast. "Just... watching my sister's fish."

"Cool fish." He sits beside me, leaving careful distance between us. "What's its name?"

"Goldie. Emma's not super creative."

He laughs, and it's genuine, not the fake performative laugh I'm used to hearing at lunch tables where everyone's performing for an audience of nobody.

"My brother had a goldfish once," Lucas says. "It jumped out of its bowl. We found it under his bed, like, three days later."

"That's dark," I say, but I'm smiling.

"Nature finds a way, I guess." He splashes water with his foot, creating ripples that distort our reflections. "So, I heard about you and Jordan."

My stomach does that thing. "Yeah. The whole school probably knows by now."

"Jordan's an idiot," he says, so casually it takes me a second to process.

I look at him, really look at him, and something shifts—like lightning striking the same place twice, except this time it doesn't burn, it illuminates.

"Want to get ice cream?" he asks. "There's that food truck on 5th."

I think about the goldfish, swimming in circles, waiting for someone to change its water. And then I think about me, waiting for something to happen, something to change.

"Yeah," I say, standing up and grabbing the mixing bowl. "But we're bringing Goldie. He deserves a field trip too."

Lucas grins. "Running there or walking?"

"Walking," I say. "Let's not get crazy."

But as we head toward the gate, I realize I'm kind of running—not away from something anymore, but toward it. And the goldfish water doesn't feel so heavy anymore.