Goldfish & Orange Hoodie Days

I'd been running from everything since freshman year — my mom's disappointed glares, the way my dad left his cereal bowls everywhere like he still lived here, the college applications piling up on my desk like a paper mountain I'd never climb. But mostly I was running from myself, from the version of me that everyone expected: the smart one, the responsible one, the one who had it figured out.

That's why I ended up at the pet store every Thursday after school, staring at the tank of feeder goldfish. Something about them, swimming in endless circles with zero ambition, felt wildly aspirational. I'd named one Gus — he had a little orange spot on his head like a tiny crown. This fish was living his best life, no ACT prep, no pressures, just swimming and existing.

"You're living the dream, Gus," I'd whisper, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. He'd bubble back, agreeing completely.

My therapist said I needed more vitamin D and exposure to natural light, which was rich coming from someone whose office window faced a brick wall. But I took the gummy vitamins anyway, mostly because they tasted like those artificial fruit snacks everyone pretended were healthy.

The real turning point wasn't some dramatic moment. It was Tuesday, when I found Gus floating belly-up. I cried harder than I had when my parents split. The cashier at the pet store, this junior from our rival high school with died-orange hair and too many piercings, saw me red-eyed and clutching my empty fish bowl.

"First time?" she asked, sliding a new goldfish across the counter. "Don't name this one. It's easier that way."

"That's terrible advice," I said, but I was already grinning.

"Yeah, well," she shrugged, "nobody knows what they're doing. We're all just swimming in circles pretending we have a destination."

I walked home with my new unnamed goldfish, wearing my ripped orange hoodie like armor, and for the first time in months, I wasn't running. I was just walking. And that felt like enough.