Goldfish Memory

My cat Tuesday watched me from the bathroom counter as I stared into the mirror, debating whether to cry over my hair. The stylist had said "texturizing layers" but what I got was more like "revenge of the mullet." I looked like I'd lost a fight with a lawn mower.

"At least you have fur all over your body," I told Tuesday, who yawned in response.

The worst part wasn't even the hair. It was that I'd gotten it cut specifically for Tyler's pool party tomorrow—the same Tyler whose Instagram stories I'd been basically spying on all summer. I knew his swim schedule, his favorite pizza place, and that he'd posted three consecutive sunset pics last week, which according to my best friend Priya meant he was definitely posting through something.

"You're not a detective," Priya had told me yesterday when I showed her my careful analysis of Tyler's caption emoji usage. "You're a girl with a crush and way too much free time."

Whatever. I wasn't obsessed. I was thorough.

I grabbed my phone and opened Instagram for the seventh time that hour. Tyler had posted a new story: him and some girl I didn't recognize, both dripping wet and laughing at what looked like a water park. Great. So there was a girl. And they were somewhere that wasn't his pool.

I closed the app and stared at Tuesday, who was now grooming himself with absolute indifference to my teenage melodrama.

"You know what?" I said. "I'm done."

I called Priya. "Pool. Now."

We went to the community pool instead of the fancy one Tyler's neighborhood had. The water was cold and smelled like too much chlorine, and I'd forgotten my good goggles, so I had to use the scratched-up ones they sold at the front desk for three dollars.

But something happened around lap twelve. My arms were burning, my lungs were working hard, and for the first time all summer, my brain stopped overanalyzing every micro-movement of Tyler's social media presence. I wasn't spying on anyone's life. I was just swimming, my body cutting through the water, my bad hair slicked back and hidden under a tacky neon cap.

Afterward, we sat on the pool edge eating vending machine chips.

"You know what they say about goldfish," Priya said, tossing a chip to a seagull. "That they have three-second memories."

"That's a myth," I said, which was something I'd learned from my goldfish-obsessed little brother. "But honestly? Sounds kind of peaceful."

"Maybe," Priya said. "Or maybe you just need to stop checking if Tyler's posted and start posting your own stuff. You know, live your life instead of watching everyone else's."

I looked at my reflection in the pool window—wet hair pushed back, no makeup, eyes red from chlorine. I actually looked kind of badass.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I'm done being a background character in my own life."

Tuesday was asleep on my bed when I got home. I took a selfie—bad hair, chlorine eyes, everything—and posted it with the caption: goldfish memory, who's she? Then I blocked Tyler's account, not because I was mad, but because I was done watching.

Some things are better seen from the inside anyway.