Goldfish Season

Maya's palms were sweating — like, actually dripping — and she was about to humiliate herself in front of everyone at Tyler's house party. Again.

The fishbowl on the kitchen counter caught her eye, a single orange goldfish swimming in lonely circles. Norman, someone had named him. Norman the goldfish, living his best life in three-second increments, completely unaware that Maya's entire social existence was currently circling the drain.

"Yo, Maya, you good?" Tyler leaned against the doorway, looking unfairly chill in his ripped jeans and that stupid black hoodie that made his jawline look all defined and stuff. Maya's brain did that thing where it short-circuited and all her cool girl evaporated.

"Yeah, totally," she squeaked. High-pitched. Amazing. "Just admiring the, uh, aquatic vibes in here."

What even was that? Aquatic vibes?

Tyler's dog, Max, chose that exact moment to sprint into the kitchen like a furry torpedo, barking at absolutely nothing, and Maya — already off-balance from her own cringe — stumbled backward. Her elbow clipped the fishbowl.

Time slowed down. Norman the goldfish, suspended in mid-air, swimming through nothing. Maya's hands, still disgustingly sweaty, making a desperate grab. The crash of glass hitting tile.

Water everywhere. Goldfish flopping on the linoleum.

And Tyler, staring at her like she'd just burned his house down.

"Oh my GOD," Maya whisper-screamed, dropping to her knees, her palms sliding uselessly against Norman's slippery body. "I'm so sorry, I literally can't even —"

She was crying now. At a party. Over a fish. This was it. This was her rock bottom.

But then Tyler was there beside her, carefully scooping Norman into his hands, both of them kneeling on the wet floor like they were performing some weird fish rescue ritual.

"Dude," he said, glancing at her with this tiny smile, "it's okay. Norman's dramatic. He does this."

Maya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"You named a fish Norman?" she sniffled.

"My little sister," he said, depositing Norman into a temporary Tupperware prison. "She's got zero creativity."

Their knees were touching. Maya's palms were still gross, but she didn't even care anymore.

"Nice save, though," he added, meeting her eyes for a second too long. "Most people would've let Norman become a carpet situation."

She laughed — a real one, not her fake polite giggle.

"Goldfish season," he said, grabbing two sodas from the fridge. "You want?"

Maya wiped her hands on her jeans, grinning. "Yeah. I want."

Norman swam in his new home, totally unaware he'd just become the best wingman in history.