Goldfish Operations

The problem with having goldfish memory is that you can never remember if you already checked your phone. I'd unlock it, stare at the screen, then five seconds later I'm doing it again. My friends said I was addicted, but honestly? I think my phone was spying on me.

Like, how else would Instagram know exactly when I was thinking about Maya?

I'd decided to become a private investigator—okay, fine, a total spy—to figure out if the universe was conspiring against my crush situation or if I was just dramatic. My mission: observe Maya's locker behavior without looking like a total creep.

Mission status: failing spectacularly.

Every time she walked past, my palms would get so sweaty I could barely hold my books. My friend Jayden caught me literally pressing my palm against the cool metal locker to calm down during third period.

"Dude," he said, wiping his own palms on his jeans. "You're doing that thing where you overthink everything until you spiral. Maya's not some mystery to solve."

Easy for him to say. His love life wasn't a conspiracy theory.

The breakthrough happened accidentally. I was at Maya's house for a group project, panic-sweating through my palm, when I noticed something weird. Her charging cable—it was stretched at this impossible angle, like it had been moved and hastily rearranged.

"Your cable setup looks suspicious," I blurted.

Maya laughed. "You noticed that? I was trying to hide that my brother keeps stealing my charger."

"Oh."

"But speaking of noticing things..." She flipped her hand over, palm up. "You've been watching me at my locker, haven't you?"

My heart stopped. "I can explain—"

"You're not exactly subtle for a spy." She grinned. "I was wondering when you'd finally say something."

So maybe I wasn't a goldfish brain after all. Maybe some things are worth paying attention to.

"Want to get bubble tea tomorrow?" she asked.

"Only if you promise not to spy on my terrible order choices."

"No promises."