Market Corrections

The goldfish stared at her through the glass, its orange scales catching the afternoon light that filtered through the blinds. Sarah had won it at a carnival three years ago—what felt like a lifetime ago, in the before times. Back when she and Marcus still laughed at each other's jokes.

"You're in a bear market," Marcus had told her that morning, his voice flat as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. "Everything's down. The portfolio, the house value, us."

She'd wanted to scream that relationships weren't stocks, that you couldn't chart their trajectory on a graph or cut your losses when the numbers turned red. But she'd stayed silent, watching him apply cologne—the same sandalwood scent she'd bought him for Christmas, back when December meant something other than just another month on the calendar.

Now the apartment felt too large, too quiet. The goldfish—ridiculously named Neptune by Marcus's niece during her brief visit—was the only living thing that still looked at her with what she pretended was recognition. Its memory span was supposedly three seconds. Sometimes she envied that.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus, asking if she'd thought about his suggestion. His suggestion: a trial separation, a strategic reallocation of assets. He'd used those exact words, his financial advisor bleeding into his marriage counselor persona.

"I'm done playing the bull," she typed, then deleted. "I'm not interested in your bear market either." Deleted again.

She walked to the fishbowl. Neptune rose to the surface, mouth opening and closing in tiny gasps. How much water did he need? How much space? She'd read somewhere that goldfish grew to the size of their container. Maybe they stopped growing out of mercy.

"Same," she whispered.

The front door clicked. Marcus stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, eyes rimmed with exhaustion that had nothing to do with the market.

"I forgot my keys," he said, then didn't move.

She didn't move either. The goldfish swam between them, its bowl casting distorted light across the floor like an underwater sunrise.

"Bear markets end," Marcus said quietly. "Eventually."

"But do we survive them?" she asked, not expecting an answer.

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, and for the first time in months, she let herself remember that volatility wasn't always something to fear. Sometimes it was just what happened when you were still alive, still fighting, still swimming against currents you couldn't control.

The goldfish watched, forgetful and eternal, as they both started to cry.