Goldfish Sunset

I felt like a **zombie** that Monday. Not the cool, TikTok-challenge kind, but the actual walking-dead kind—the kind that exists through three periods of math with two hours of sleep and a soul-crushing crush on someone who definitely didn't know my name.

"You look like death," Maya whispered, sliding into the seat beside me in homeroom. "Rough weekend?"

"You could say that." I stared at my backpack, where my pet **goldfish** Bubbles swam in his temporary travel container. He'd survived three weeks with me, which felt like a personal record. My mom said fish were gateway pets, practice for real responsibility. I was failing.

Maya's eyes lit up. "Wait, is that—"

"Yeah. Don't make a scene."

"No way! You're smuggling a LIVE ANIMAL into Mr. Harrison's class?" She practically vibrated with excitement. "That's actually legendary."

I shrugged. "He dies if I leave him home alone again. My sister's murder-phobic."

"Your sister's afraid of GOLDFISH?" Maya snorted. "That's actually so dumb."

The bell rang. Mr. Harrison launched into his monotone lecture about symbolism in literature. I watched Bubbles through the mesh of my backpack, his **orange** scales catching the sliver of sunlight through the window. Orange—the color of danger warnings, construction cones, the sunset I'd watched with my dad before he moved out. Now it was just the color of the one living thing that depended on me.

"So," Maya whispered during a pause in the lecture, "there's this party Friday. At Alex's house."

My heart did that thing where it forgets how to beat properly. Alex. THE Alex. "And...?"

"And I'm going. And you should come. With Bubbles." She grinned. "Bring the fish. It'll be our thing."

"Fish aren't allowed at parties."

"Since when do you care about rules? You're literally hiding a living creature in your backpack right now." She lowered her voice. "Besides, Alex thinks rebels are hot."

I looked at Bubbles swimming in tiny circles, completely unaware that he was now my wingman. Three weeks ago, I wouldn't have dared. But zombie-me was tired of playing it safe. Zombie-me wanted to feel something real.

"Okay," I said. "We'll go."

Maya squealed. Mr. Harrison shot us a look. We both dissolved into silent laughter, shoulders shaking.

When the final bell rang, I walked out feeling something shift in my chest. Still tired, still crushing on someone impossible, still responsible for a creature with a three-second memory. But maybe—just maybe—I was done being the zombie in the back of the room. Maybe it was time to be the girl who brought a goldfish to a party, who took actual risks, who lived in color instead of gray.

Orange, specifically. That seemed like a good place to start.