Goldfish Operations

The chlorine stung my eyes as I hovered by the school pool, drowning in the humidity. My phone buzzed — Max, demanding intel.

"Status report, Goldfish One," they'd texted, using that ridiculous codename they'd given me last week when I'd confessed my crush.

I watched Jake towel off his wet hair by the diving board, droplets cascading down his neck like he was some kind of Instagram model posing for a thirst trap. My stomach did that uncomfortable fluttery thing it always did when he was nearby.

"Target is still hot," I typed back, then immediately wanted to die. Why was I like this?

The plan had seemed solid at 2 AM: Max would run interference while I "accidentally" bumped into Jake by the water fountain. But now that I was actually executing Operation Goldfish, I felt more like a spy who'd forgotten their training manual. Who even am I anymore? The person who spent three hours curating a Spotify playlist to bump into him in the cafeteria? Yes. Yes, I am that person.

I glanced at the pet store goldfish tank on my phone screen — my background because I'm **that** deep in my feels. Fish swimming in endless circles, never realizing they're going nowhere. That's me, circling around Jake, hoping he'll notice.

"He's coming your way," Max's text flashed.

Panic flared. I smoothed my hair, checked my reflection in the pool's glass wall. My phone slipped, hit the water with a tiny splash.

Jake reached in, fished it out. His fingers brushed mine — electric, totally planned by the universe. "You okay, Maya?"

The words caught in my throat like a fish out of... well, you know.

"Yeah," I squeaked. "Just doing some, uh, reconnaissance."

He laughed, and the sound was better than any song on my carefully curated playlist. "You're weird. I like it."

As he walked away, my phone buzzed again. Max: "Mission accomplished. Our spy has made contact."

I stared at the water rippling in the pool, feeling like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't swimming in circles anymore.