Goldfish Sunset

The summer air smelled like funnel cake and desperation as I stood before the carnival game, fingers clutching three ping-pong balls like they were my entire future.

"You got this, Orange," Bear said, bumping my shoulder with his. I hated that nickname—someone had started calling me that in seventh grade when I accidentally used orange Kool-Aid instead of water in a science project, and it had stuck like glitter on glue. But Bear made it sound different somehow. Like it wasn't a punchline.

Bear Jameson, varsity basketball forward, the guy who sat behind me in homeroom and whose smile made my stomach do actual gymnastics.

"One throw wins you a prize," the carnie announced, "Even the little ones deserve something special."

I threw. The ball bounced off the rim, spinning in slow motion before—plip—it landed in a tiny glass bowl.

"Winner!" Bear high-fived me, his palm warm against mine. "What's it gonna be? The giant bear? The neon sunglasses?"

"The goldfish," I said, pointing at the plastic bag swimming with a single orange fish. Something about its determined little movements spoke to me.

Bear raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That thing'll probably die before the weekend's over."

"Maybe," I said, handing over my tickets. "But it's alive right now."

We walked to the picnic tables, sunset painting the sky in shades of, well, orange. Bear's phone buzzed—his ex wanting to get back together, probably. I knew I should feel grateful for this moment, just the two of us, my heart doing pirouettes every time he looked my way.

But watching that goldfish swim in its tiny bag, I realized something. Everyone expected me to be thrilled—Bear was finally talking to me, really talking to me—but I was just ... floating along like that fish, trapped in someone else's current.

"Hey, Bear?" I said suddenly.

"Yeah, Orange?"

"My name's Mia."

He blinked. "What?"

"My name. It's Mia. I'm done being Orange."

Bear looked at me for a long moment, really looked at me, like he was seeing me for the first time. Then he smiled—not the polite smile, but a real one. "Mia," he tested the word. "That suits you better."

The goldfish died two days later, but something else had started swimming in its place. Something that was finally, undeniably mine.