Goldfish Rules Everything Around Me

The carnival goldfish lived exactly three days. I named him Kevin, because Kevin seemed like a solid, trustworthy name for a creature whose entire existence would span less than a hundred hours. When I found him floating belly-up in that tiny plastic bowl on my dresser, something in my sixteen-year-old brain cracked.

"That's deep," Sofia said when I told her at lunch the next day, barely looking up from her phone. "Like, metaphorically deep. Everything ends. Nothing lasts. We're all just swimming in circles waiting to—"

"I literally just need to bury him," I interrupted.

So that's how I ended up in the backyard at 11 PM on a Tuesday, digging into the dirt with a spoon from the kitchen because I couldn't find a shovel, wearing my dad's old fishing hat pulled down low because I'd been crying and didn't want the neighbors to witness whatever breakdown I was currently having.

The goldfish funeral was interrupted by my phone vibrating in my pocket.

*running late. meet at the spot? - Jordan*

Jordan. The Jordan who'd been my lab partner since freshman year, who I'd suddenly started noticing in a way that made my stomach do things I didn't want to analyze. The Jordan I was supposed to be meeting for our first non-school hangout in twenty minutes.

I smoothed my hair, checked my reflection in the back door—red eyes, hat, probably dirt on my face. Peak aesthetic.

The vitamin gummies in my pocket were supposed to be for my mom, but I'd started stress-eating them during third period because they tasted like artificial strawberries and poor decisions. I popped two now. What even were vitamins anyway? Tiny promises of health in chewable form.

When I got to the park, Jordan was already there, sitting on the swings, running their shoe through the woodchips.

"Hey," I said, suddenly hyperaware of the fishing hat. "Sorry I'm... I had a funeral."

"A funeral?" Jordan's eyebrows went up.

"For a fish. It's a long story."

Jordan studied me for a second, then scooted over on the swing. "My sister's goldfish lasted five years. We won it at a carnival. She named it Sparkle and it refused to die, like it was personally offended by the concept of mortality."

"Kevin was not that strong," I admitted, sitting down.

"Kevin?" Jordan smiled. It was different from their lab partner smile. This one was softer, realer. "I like that you name things. That's cool."

The moment stretched between us, charged and terrifying and maybe wonderful.

"Nice hat, by the way," Jordan added. "Very mysterious."

I laughed. I didn't even know what this was—between us, inside me—but for the first time since Kevin's untimely demise, I thought maybe I'd be okay. Some things ended. Some things were just beginning. And I had exactly zero vitamin gummies left, so that was tomorrow's problem.