Goldfish Memory

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter like an alien artifact. My mom's latest phase—tropical fruits, mindfulness, pretending everything wasn't falling apart.

"Try it, Maya. It's good for you."

I stared at the orange flesh like it had personally offended me. "I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in two days."

Technically true. Also technically true: I hadn't slept properly since the breakup. Since Jason decided three years meant nothing because college was happening and apparently long-distance was too much work.

I felt like a zombie. Not the cool Netflix kind with perfect eyeliner and determination. The other kind—shuffling through school, forcing words out, my brain foggy and distant, watching myself exist from somewhere outside my body.

My phone buzzed. Another group chat I'd left on read. Everyone moving forward while I was stuck in February, replaying our last conversation.

"What's wrong with Lightning?" I asked, changing the subject.

My mom followed my gaze to the fishbowl on the counter. Our goldfish, Lightning Bolt McSwishington Face (I was fourteen when I named him, don't judge), was floating vertically, nose-up.

"I think he's gone, honey."

Something in my chest cracked. Stupid, right? Crying over a fish that lived too long anyway, lived through braces and my first breakup and learning to drive and now he was just gone because I'd forgotten to feed him for three days because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

"I'll flush him," I said, because someone had to.

But my mom shook her head, slicing the papaya. "Give him a proper sendoff. Down by the creek."

So that's how I ended up standing by the water behind our subdivision at sunset, holding a fishbowl in one hand and a papaya slice in the other, crying in a way I hadn't allowed myself to cry about anything else.

"You were a good fish, Lightning. You never judged me for spending hours on the phone with him. You never said I told you so when I thought he was different."

I tipped the bowl. The current carried him away—tiny orange flash, gone.

I bit into the papaya. Sweet, strange, unexpected.

"Okay," I said to nobody. "Okay."

My phone buzzed again. This time I looked.

Pool party Saturday. Actually sounded fun.

I typed back: count me in.

The zombie was gone. The future was still scary, but it was coming either way.