Goldfish Memory Syndrome

The problem with crushing on Harper wasn't the crushing part. It was the way I became a total spy about it.

I had her social media memorized like it was gonna be on the final. I knew her Starbucks order (iced oat milk latte, two pumps vanilla), her dog's name (Mr. Pickles, ridiculous but cute), and that she posted sunset pics every Tuesday without fail. I was basically running a background check, except instead of being cool and mysterious, I was just a teenage girl with too much time and way too many feelings.

"You need to get out of your head, Maya," my bestie Jax said, stealing a fry from my tray. "You're spiraling. Again."

I pulled my beanie down lower. The hat thing had started accidentally—now I basically collected them like they were emotional armor. Beanies for anxiety days, trucker hats for fake confidence, the ridiculous bucket hat Jax got me as a joke that I weirdly loved.

"I'm not spiraling," I lied. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

"You literally know her schedule better than your own. That's not observing, bestie. That's stalker-adjacent."

I didn't even argue because she wasn't wrong. My goldfish memory was supposedly three seconds, but I remembered EVERYTHING about Harper. The way she laughed with her whole body. How she always wore mismatched socks. That time she'd helped me pick up my dropped books in the hallway and I'd forgotten how to speak like a normal human being.

So when Jax convinced me to actually talk to Harper at the fall festival, I wasn't prepared for Harper to recognize me.

"Hey, you're the girl with the cool hats," Harper said, and my brain short-circuited. "I like this one." She reached out and touched the brim of my bucket hat.

"Thanks," I managed, my voice doing something weird and strangled. "It's my emotional support hat."

Harper laughed, and it was better in person. "I'm Harper."

"Maya," I said. "I know. I mean, I've seen you around. At school. Not that I was looking or anything—"

"Save it while you're behind," she teased, and I wanted to die but also maybe live in this moment forever.

We talked for twenty minutes about nothing and everything. The way the air smelled like kettle corn and autumn. How Mr. Pickles had eaten her homework literally once. That we both had goldfish when we were little and they'd both been named Fish.

"Coincidence?" Harper asked.

"Or fate," I said, feeling bold for once.

She took my number. I walked home running on pure serotonin, already planning which hat to wear next time.

Maybe goldfish memories are short. But sometimes, just sometimes, the important stuff sticks.