Goldfish Operations

I never thought I'd be the type to creep on people's social media, but here I am at 2 AM, scrolling through Emma's Instagram likes like a total spy. It's been three weeks since she dropped me for the popular crowd, and I'm still obsessing over every tiny detail of her new life.

My actual friend — my goldfish, technically — floats in his bowl on my desk, blinking at me with those vacant eyes. Dad calls him Fish #4 because I'm terrible at keeping them alive. But this one's survived two months, so we're practically best friends at this point.

"You think I'm pathetic, don't you?" I ask him. He swims to the surface, mouth opening and closing like he's actually considering it. "Whatever. At least I'm not swimming in my own toilet water 24/7."

My phone buzzes. It's Emma. Or her Instagram story, anyway. She's at some party I wasn't invited to, looking perfect and radiant and nothing like the girl who used to come over and watch horror movies with me while eating all my snacks. The betrayal still stings, even though I know that's pathetic.

I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I grab my running shoes and head out into the cold night air. Running is my new thing — my therapist suggested it as a healthy coping mechanism. Plus, it's way better than spiraling over someone who clearly moved on.

But somehow my feet take me toward the community center instead of the park. The lights are still on. The indoor pool.

Emma's car is in the parking lot.

I push open the door and there she is, swimming laps in the empty pool, her strokes rhythmic and fierce. She sees me and stops, treading water in the deep end.

"I thought you'd be at Tyler's party," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Left early," she says, dripping wet and somehow still looking like herself again. "Too many people. Not enough... I don't know. Realness."

"You could've told me," I say. "Instead of just... disappearing."

"I know. I'm working on it. Therapy stuff." She splashes water at me. "Want to race?"

"I didn't bring a suit."

"So?" She grins. "Neither did I."

I'm still wearing my running clothes when I cannonball into the pool, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels okay. Not fixed, but okay. The goldfish would be proud.