Goldfish Memories

I felt like a total creep, honestly. But there I was at 11:47 PM, refresh-ing my old best friend's Instagram profile for the third time that night. The glow from my iPhone lit up my face like a digital ghost in my dark room. Technically not stalking, I told myself. Just fact-checking. Like a spy, but for friendship stuff.

Three weeks ago, Sarah had sat with the cool kids at lunch. Not just sat—like, actually laughed at their jokes. Now she was posting selfies with them at the mall, living her best life while I was over here eating papaya chunks straight from the container because my mom went through a "tropical fruit phase" at Costco.

The papaya was actually pretty good, though. Not that I'd admit that to anyone.

My phone buzzed. A notification. From Sarah.

"Hey! You busy tomorrow? Want to hang?"

I stared at the screen until it timed out. What was happening? Was I being baited? Was this some kind of social experiment? I texted back: "sure! what did u have in mind?"

"My house. 2 PM. Bring stuff for tacos."

The next day, I walked to Sarah's carrying taco shells and emotional baggage. Her room was different—new posters, new vibe, but there on her desk, in a slightly murky bowl, was Pepe the goldfish. We'd won him at the school fair last year, back when we were still us.

"He's still alive," I said.

"Yeah. I thought he'd be dead by now, but here we are." Sarah sat on her bed. "I missed you, you know."

"You looked pretty busy with your new friends."

"They're not like us." Sarah picked at her duvet. "They don't get my references. They don't know about my goldfish trauma from fourth grade when I accidentally overfed one and it literally exploded."

I cracked up. "I forgot about that."

"And they've never even tried papaya, can you believe that?"

"Barbarians."

We made tacos and talked about everything and nothing. I learned that she still felt awkward with the cool kids, that she missed our inside jokes, that sometimes popularity is just performing a version of yourself you don't actually like.

"I'm done being a spy," I told her later, putting my phone away. "If you want to hang, just tell me. I'm done guessing."

"Deal."

Some friendships have a three-second memory, like goldfish. But the real ones? They remember. They survive. They find their way back to each other, even through the weird awkwardness of growing up and becoming people you don't quite recognize yet.

I walked home with actual hope in my chest. My phone pinged—a meme from Sarah. Some things, apparently, never change.