Goldfish Operation

My life expectancy was exactly seven seconds. That's what my brother said anyway, comparing me to the goldfish we'd won at the county fair three years ago—the one that had mysteriously "gone to live on a farm" after my mom found it doing the backstroke in its bowl. But unlike our goldfish, I actually remembered stuff. Like how Emma Chen had tucked her hair behind her left ear exactly forty-seven times during AP Calc today. Not that I was counting. Okay, maybe I was. But you'd count too if you were operationally deep undercover as the world's most pathetic spy.

I'd cracked the code on everything: her Spotify playlist (indie folk with a concerning amount of breakup songs), her coffee order (oat milk latte, extra hot—basic, but cute), and that she was definitely failing Physics. But Operation: Don't Be Weird wasn't exactly going according to plan. My best friend Jace had spent the last three weeks trying to talk me out of what he called "straight-up stalker behavior" and I called "tactical reconnaissance.""Bro," Jace had said yesterday, practically falling out of his desk chair from laughing so hard. "You're not a spy. You're just a guy who sits behind a girl in math class. This isn't a cable show. There's no dramatic music when you accidentally make eye contact."

He wasn't wrong. My palms were basically a waterfall every time Emma glanced my way, which happened approximately never. Until Friday, when she dropped her pen. It rolled under my desk, and suddenly there she was, crouching next to me, her nose like three inches from mine."Hey," she said, and I swear my heart did something illegal. "You're Leo, right? From my Physics group?""Uh-huh," I managed, my voice cracking like I was still thirteen. "Cool. Cool cool.""So smooth," she said, but she was smiling. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to study at my place tomorrow? My parents are doing this thing and I am NOT passing another test without actual help."

I said yes. Obviously. But later that night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, I realized something: maybe life wasn't about being smooth or having perfect recon or never sweating through your shirt. Maybe it was about risking it all—looking like a total goldfish-brained idiot—because the alternative was never knowing what might happen if you actually tried.

I touched my palm to the wall. Seven seconds, seven minutes, seven years—didn't matter. This was the one I was gonna remember.