Goldfish Summer at the Pool's Edge

I spent that whole summer **running** from everything—my mom's questions about college apps, the group chat blowing up with drama I didn't want to touch, the mirror that kept reminding me I hadn't grown into my body yet. The only place I could breathe was the **pool** behind Maya's house.

That's where I met him—the **sphinx** of the swim team, as everyone called Tyler. He'd sit on the edge during practice breaks, legs dangling in the water, watching everyone like he was solving some invisible riddle. Not cold, just quiet. The kind of quiet that made you want to say something real.

My therapist insisted I take my **vitamin** D supplements because apparently seventeen-year-olds who spend all day gaming aren't exactly soaking up sunlight. I'd pop them poolside, trying to look like I belonged there, Tyler watching me with those eyes that saw too much.

"You know the thing about **goldfish**?" he asked one afternoon, finally breaking weeks of silence. "People say they have three-second memories. But scientists proved that's wrong. They remember for months."

I stared at him, water dripping from my hair. "Okay...?"

"Just saying. Maybe we're not so different from them. Everyone thinks teenagers are superficial, but we remember everything. The slights. The moments that actually matter." He slid into the water, smooth and effortless. "We're not just swimming in circles."

That night, I actually replied to the group chat. Not with an emoji, not with a meme. With something real.

And Tyler? He's still a sphinx sometimes. But now he lets me sit next to him at the pool's edge, both of us watching the water, no longer running from the things we can't forget.