Goldfish Summer Storm

Marcus stood outside the gym, his stomach doing that familiar flip-flop thing that happened whenever Blake was around. Blake, the human embodiment of a **bull** in a china shop, all shoulders and swagger and zero awareness of the destruction he left behind. The guy had been making Marcus's life miserable since seventh grade, and it was exhausting.

"You coming to Jake's party or what?" Blake shouted across the hallway, and Marcus just nodded because saying no wasn't an option anymore. Not since last year when he'd tried standing up for himself and ended up with his backpack dumped in the cafeteria fountain.

That night, the storm hit like **lightning** — sudden, bright, impossible to ignore. Marcus found himself squeezed onto a basement couch between two couples who were practically eating each other's faces, holding a red solo cup filled with something that tasted like cough syrup and regret. His phone buzzed: his mom reminding him to feed the **goldfish**.

The goldfish. Norman. Norman had survived three moves, a cat attack, and Marcus's little sister's "accidental" overfeeding phase. Norman was lowkey the strongest living thing Marcus knew.

"Yo, Marcus!" Blake appeared, already wasted. "Do a keg stand!"

Everyone was watching. This was it — the moment Marcus either **bear** the humiliation again or actually do something. His hands shook. He thought about Norman, just swimming in circles in his little bowl, not giving a crap about anything.

"Nah," Marcus said. The word came out small but clear.

"What?"

"I said nah. I'm good."

Blake laughed. "What are you, scared?"

"Marcus takes his **vitamin** gummies every morning," someone called out, and the room erupted.

But then something weird happened. Marcus started laughing too. Not nervous laughter — genuine, belly-deep laughter. Because yeah, he did take his vitamins, and yeah, he was going home to feed his fish, and honestly? Blake was the one doing keg stands in a gross basement at seventeen while Marcus had an early shift at the animal shelter tomorrow.

"Actually," Marcus said, standing up, "Norm probably needs me. Later."

He walked out into the rain, phone soaking up texts from his mom, and realized for the first time in forever: he was okay with being the guy who left parties early. Norman was waiting. Tomorrow was Saturday. And somehow, that was enough.