Goldfish Tears

Marcus stared at the carnival goldfish swimming in its plastic bag, its orange scales shimmering under his phone's flashlight. Won it because Sarah dared him to—she stood there grinning with her friends, hair still wet from the **water** balloon fight earlier. His first week at Northwood High, and somehow he'd already been branded as the kid who'd do anything for a laugh.

"Don't forget to feed it," she called, already walking away with her squad.

His phone buzzed. Three unread texts from Tyler: *u coming to jake's party?*, *everyone's gonna be there*, *don't be lame.*

Marcus wasn't lame. He just wasn't ready. Last school, last state, last life—he was done reinventing himself. Done with the whole performance.

"**Bull**," he muttered, watching the fish dart around its tiny prison. That's what his older brother called him whenever he overthought stuff. *Just own it, bull. Act like you've been here before.*

The goldfish floated still. Was it dead already?

Something in his chest tightened. Not the fish. Just everything.

He'd told himself this time would be different. No fake friendships. No pretending to like stuff he didn't. But here he was, holding a fish he didn't want, missing a party he wasn't ready for, lying in bed thinking about Sarah's laugh and how maybe he wanted to be the person she thought he was—brave, impulsive, worth noticing.

The fish moved. A tiny flick of its tail.

Marcus sat up. Names filled his head: Goldie? Original. Captain Fin? Stupid. **Bull** Jr.? His brother would lose it.

He walked to the kitchen, found a glass bowl, filled it with tap **water**. Watched the fish swim out, freer than before.

*Not dead,* he thought. *Just starting over.*

His thumb hovered over Tyler's text. Then he typed: *yeah I'll come.*

Maybe that's all growing up was—a series of tiny restarts. Maybe the **friend** thing, the fitting-in thing, the being-seen thing—it all came down to not overthinking the swim.