Swimming in Circles

The carnival goldfish died three days after freshman year started, which honestly felt like a metaphor for my entire existence. I'd won it throwing baseballs at milk bottles, trying to impress Mia with my supposed athletic skills. She'd smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear — that hair, always falling in her face like she didn't care what anyone thought, which made me care about everything.

Now it's junior year and I'm stuck in left field during the worst thunderstorm in recent memory, basically drowning while Coach Miller screams something about dedication from the dugout. My hair's plastered to my forehead, and I can feel the lightning crackling through the air like it's personally offended by my poor life choices.

"You gonna stand there or actually play baseball?" yells some sophomore whose name I definitely should know.

Then it hits me — literally, figuratively, whatever. Lightning strikes the field transformer and everything goes dark. In that split second of illumination, I see Mia in the stands, not watching the game but watching me. She's wearing that same smile from the carnival, hair wet and messy and perfect.

The goldfish had lived in a bowl, swimming in tiny circles, never realizing it could go deeper. That was me, circling through crushes and baseball practices and conversations that meant nothing, scared to dive into anything real.

I sprint toward the bleachers through the rain. "Hey," I say, and my voice actually sounds confident for once.

"Hey, Baseball Boy," she grins. "Nice storm."

"Yeah," I say, heart doing that lightning thing again. "Hey, remember that carnival? Freshman year?"

"The one where you won that fish?" She laughs, and it's better than any home run. "Poor thing lasted like two days."

"About that," I say, and I don't even care that I'm soaked and probably about to get struck by actual lightning. "I was trying to impress you then, too."

Mia's smile shifts, gets softer. "Yeah," she says. "I know."