Goldfish Summer

Maya leaned against the counter of Abuela's bodega, iPhone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. The screen showed 473 Instagram followers, but somehow she still felt invisible.

"Mija, try this papaya." Abuela pressed a chunk of orange fruit into her hand. "So sweet today. Like your mother when she was your age."

"Abuela, please." Maya's eyes darted to the door. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see her being forced to eat tropical fruit in public. "I'm trying to look busy."

"Busy with what? Your phone?" Abuela chuckled, arranging papayas in a pyramid by the register. "Your generation lives in boxes. No wonder everyone's attention span is like a goldfish."

Maya rolled her eyes but didn't argue. The goldfish comment was typical Abuela wisdom—annoying and slightly accurate. Maya's longest conversation this week had been eight texts long.

The bell jingled. Ryan from AP Bio walked in, and Maya's stomach did that terrible flip it always did. He grabbed a Gatorade from the cooler.

"Hey," he said, actually looking at her. "Your grandma always has the best fruit. You try those papayas yet? They're insane."

Maya blinked. "You... you eat papaya?"

"Yeah? Why not." Ryan shrugged. "My mom's Honduran. We have it every weekend."

The bell jingled again as he left. Maya stood there, iPhone forgotten in her hand, staring at the papaya pyramid like it was alien technology.

"See?" Abuela whispered. "You think you're so different, but everyone's just... people."

That night, Maya sat on her fire escape, Instagram scrolling through perfectly curated lives—everyone golden and glowing and fake. Then she thought about the papaya. How it looked weird on the outside, but inside it was this vibrant, messy, real thing.

She opened her camera. Not to post, just to see. For once, Maya didn't think about filters or followers or who might see it. She just took a picture of the papaya Abuela had given her, orange and imperfect against the brick wall.

Then she deleted Instagram. At least for tonight.

Some things were better than goldfish memories. Some things were worth keeping.