Goldfish Meditations

I stared at the gelatinous orange **vitamin** gummy on my tongue like it was some kind of alien artifact. My mom swore these things would fix everything—my skin, my energy, my entire existence. Meanwhile, I was busy trying to disappear.

"You joining track this year?" Maya asked at lunch, sliding her tray next to mine like she owned the cafeteria ecosystem.

"Maybe," I lied. Truth: I'd been **running** every morning at 5 AM since July, hidden in the subdivision behind the old elementary school where nobody I knew would see me wheezing through the dark.

Maya's friend group—The Clique, basically—had spent sophomore year perfecting that effortless aesthetic. You know the type. Their morning routines probably involved actual sunlight and green juice, not panic-texting your best friend about what to wear.

I retreated to my room after school, collapsing onto my bed. Bubbles, my pet **goldfish**, did his usual thing: swimming in frantic circles like he was perpetually late for something important.

"I feel you, man," I told him.

He stared at me with those buggy, deadpan eyes. Why did I pour my heart out to a fish with a three-second memory? Probably because he didn't interrupt or offer unsolicited advice about how I should just *put myself out there.*

My phone lit up. *Track tryouts tomorrow. You coming?* From Jordan—the quiet guy who sat behind me in pre-calc. The one I'd seen at the subdivision sometimes, same time as me, running in the opposite direction like we were orbiting different planets.

I'd been so focused on not being seen that I didn't notice who else was hiding.

The next morning, I showed up. Jordan was already there, stretching in the gray light.

"Thought I was the only one," he said.

"Nope. Just the only one freaking out about it."

He laughed. "Same."

We ran. And something shifted—not in some dramatic movie-moment way, but like **water** finding its path. One conversation turned into daily training sessions. Turns out, Jordan was trying out for the same reason: everyone expected him to play basketball because he was tall, and he hated it.

"Your fish know you're doing track?" he asked a week later.

"Bubbles? Yeah. He's my emotional support animal."

"Solid. Mine's a turtle. His name is Speed."

We made the team. Not because we suddenly became athletes, but because we stopped caring about who was watching.

That night, I dropped a vitamin gummy into Bubbles' tank.

"For luck," I told him. He ignored it, probably smart enough to know fake confidence when he saw it.

I didn't need it anymore anyway.