Goldfish Tears & Papaya Suns
Maya's tears were mixing with the pool water, which was honestly embarrassing — she was seventeen, not seven, but here she was, hiding in the bathroom at Jessica's end-of-summer party.
"You good in there?" someone called through the door. Great. Now she was the crying girl at the party.
She'd been running from her feelings all summer, ever since Kai ended things with that vague "it's not you, it's me" text. But swimming in this pool party surrounded by happy couples was somehow worse than staying home with her parents and their papaya smoothies.
Her phone buzzed. Kai.
"Can we talk?"
Maya stared at her goldfish case on the counter — her emergency backup phone case because she was basic like that. The goldfish had tiny hearts for eyes. She hated it now.
"leave me alone," she typed, then backspaced. Too dramatic.
"i'm busy," she sent instead.
Outside, someone cannonballed into the pool. Screams. Laughter. The normal sounds of people who weren't currently having an emotional crisis in someone's bathroom.
Then her mom's voice echoed in her head: *Mija, sometimes you have to let things process like papaya ripening — can't rush it.* Maya had rolled her eyes at the time, but now...
Fine. She wasn't running anymore.
She stepped out of the bathroom. Kai was by the snack table, holding a papaya like it was a science project. He looked how she felt — confused, trying too hard.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"So..."
"So."
Maya looked at him — really looked. He was wearing that goldfish shirt she'd bought him last month. His hair was wet from earlier, plastering it to his forehead in that way she used to think was cute but now just looked messy.
"I'm still processing," she said. "Like a papaya."
Kai blinked. "What?"
"You wouldn't get it."
And maybe that was the point — they weren't swimming in the same direction anymore. Maya grabbed a soda, turned toward where her actual friends were doing chicken fights in the pool, and didn't look back.
Some things were worth running toward instead of away from.