Neptune on the Roof

My friend Maya called at 2 AM on a Tuesday. "Parents are gone for the weekend. You coming over?"

I didn't hesitate. Maya's house had a pool, a stocked fridge, and Leo was supposed to be there. Leo with the messy curls and vintage band tees. Leo who I'd been lowkey crushing on since seventh grade when he let me borrow his history notes and our fingers touched for exactly three seconds.

When I arrived, the backyard was already buzzing. Some seniors I barely recognized sprawled across lawn chairs. A kiddie pool sat center stage, filled with ice and sodas, bobbing with melting cubes like tiny arctic ships.

"He's inside," Maya whispered, nudging my elbow. "And get this—he brought his pet goldfish."

"His what?"

"Goldfish. In a bowl. Says it's for good luck." She rolled her eyes. I felt something flutter in my chest. Who brings a goldfish to a party? That was either the most pathetic or most endearing thing I'd ever heard.

Inside, Leo was setting up a karaoke machine.

"Hey," he said, spotting me. The goldfish bowl glowed on a nearby shelf, its solitary fish darting nervously. "This is Neptune. He gets stressed in new environments."

"Same," I said before I could stop myself.

Leo laughed—a real laugh, crinkles by his eyes. "Wanna help? The cable's loose."

We spent twenty minutes messing with cables and speakers, shoulders bumping, talking about everything and nothing. School, music, how much we both hated pep rallies. Neptune watched from his shelf like a tiny, silent judge.

Then the patio door slid open. Brittany tumbled in with her clique, all gloss and competition energy.

"What is THIS?" She pointed at Neptune with manicured nails. "A fish? At a party?"

Leo shrugged. "His name's Neptune. He's my emotional support animal."

The room went quiet. Then Brittany cackled, and suddenly everyone was laughing. Not the nice kind.

I watched Leo's face. He didn't flush or stammer. Just smiled this small, secret smile that made my stomach flip-flop.

"What's funny about emotional support?" he asked, quiet but clear. "My therapist says—"

"Your therapist?" Brittany snorted. "Okay, drama king."

I didn't think. Just moved. Stepped between them.

"Actually, therapy's really common. Like, really common." I grabbed Leo's hand. "And Neptune is cool."

The room got awkward fast. Brittany muttered something and they drifted back outside. But something had shifted. Leo looked at me, and I swear, recognition passed between us.

Later, on the roof eating papaya chunks from a bowl Maya's mom had cut up, the sweetness bursting on my tongue, Leo spoke.

"Thanks," he said, leaning back on his elbows as the sky turned pink-gold. "For earlier."

"Brittany's just insecure," I said, heart hammering.

"You know what's funny?" Leo watched the horizon. "I was scared to come tonight. But now I'm glad I brought Neptune."

"Me too." Then, because sometimes you just have to go for it: "Do you want to hang out sometime? Without an audience?"

Leo turned to me, face illuminated by porch light below, and smiled. "Yeah. I really do."

We sat there while the party wound down below, Neptune's bowl glowing soft and orange from the shelf inside. Some people are like papayas—intimidating at first, but worth the risk. Leo was worth it. Neptune was worth it. Even this messy, awkward summer was worth it.

When I got home, my phone buzzed. Leo had sent a meme—a fox with the caption "when you find your people but they're weird like you."

I saved it. Felt like maybe, just maybe, I was starting to figure out who my people actually were.