Goldfish Memories & Orange Hair

The goldfish floated at the top of the bowl again. Bob, RIP. This was the third one this semester. I texted Maya: bob is dead. again. She replied three minutes later with a skull emoji and lol ur cursed.

I stared at my reflection in the glass tank. My hair, this mousy brown curtain that made me invisible in homeroom, made me invisible everywhere. The orange hair dye kit burned a hole in my backpack pocket. I'd bought it with my babysitting money, trembling at the checkout like I was purchasing illegal contraband.

My phone buzzed. Jason's Instagram story popped up—him and Skylar at the fall dance, looking perfect and golden and alive. They probably had pets that lived for years. They probably never bought orange hair dye on a whim.

The thing about goldfish is everyone says they have three-second memories. That's fake, obviously, but I felt like one sometimes. Three-second loops of: don't speak too loud, don't be too much, don't draw attention to yourself. The same cycle, over and over, round and round the bowl.

I flushed Bob. No ceremony this time. First time I cried. Second time I felt guilty. This time I just felt... done.

My bathroom mirror became the battlefield. The instructions said thirty minutes. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, hair slathered in this chemical-smelling orange stuff, watching TikToks on my iPhone. Girls my age doing hair transformations, glow-ups, becoming someone else in sixty seconds.

Why not me?

I washed it out. And stared. And stared.

The orange wasn't the soft amber of the box. It was bright. Neon. Traffic cone. I looked like a warning sign.

My mom knocked. "Everything okay in there?"

"Fine," I said. My voice shook.

I took a selfie. Hair wild, eyes wide, this bright orange crown on my head. I posted it. No filter. No caption. Just... me.

Three likes. Then ten. Then Maya: BESTIE U LOOK AMAZING. Then Jason: whoa. didn't recognize u.

The fish were gone. The mousy brown was gone. The three-second memory loop—broken.

I looked like someone who belonged in her own story. Someone who didn't float at the top waiting to be noticed.

My hair? It was perfect.