Goldfish Rules Everything Around Me

The bull in our padel match wasn't an animal — it was Marcus, the sophomore whose serve could crack concrete. I'd transferred to Ridgeview three weeks ago, and somehow got roped into the tournament by my lab partner who swore I'd be "lowkey chill at sports."

"You're overthinking it," said Leo, my lab partner, bouncing on his heels. "Just hit the thing."

Easy for him to say. My dad called me Bear growing up because I'd hibernate in my room whenever life got overwhelming. I'd spent the last three years basically living in my head, my only companion being Barnaby, a goldfish with a serious attitude problem.

The paddle felt slippery in my hand. Marcus served, the ball whistling past my ear.

"That's gotta sting," someone muttered.

I thought about quitting. About how much I wanted to be back in my room, watching Barnaby swim in endless circles, wondering if goldfish even realized they were stuck in a glass box.

But then I remembered what my mom said last night, trying to get me to eat that disgusting spinach salad: "Sometimes you have to do things that taste terrible because they're what's best for you."

"Okay," I said, stepping up. "Again."

Marcus's next serve came fast. I didn't think. I just swung, connecting with the ball in a way that felt somehow inevitable, like I'd been waiting my whole life for this exact moment.

The ball sailed past him, landing perfectly in the corner.

"No shot," Leo breathed.

We won. Not because I was some secret prodigy, but because I finally stopped treating every new experience like a bear about to maul me and started seeing them for what they actually were: just moments, neither good nor bad until I decided what they meant.

That night, I fed Barnaby an extra pinch of fish flakes. He swam to the front of his bowl, staring at me with those bug eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," I told him. "I ate the spinach. I can handle a little padel tournament."