The Bull Market of Regret

Marcus stood before his door at 11 PM, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie undone like a noose he'd survived. Another day surfing the bull market, another fourteen hours of shouting numbers that meant nothing, making money that bought less and less of anything real. He felt like a zombie from those old movies—walking, talking, but inside, something vital had been eaten away years ago.

The apartment was dark except for the soft blue glow of the fish tank. His goldfish, Bubbles, drifted near the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent witness. Sarah had left him three months ago, taking everything except the fish. 'You're already dead,' she'd said, packed her bags, and walked out. She wasn't wrong.

His phone buzzed—Elena. They hadn't spoken since college, since that summer they'd spent skipping summer classes to watch baseball games at Wrigley. She was in town for a conference. Dinner?

They met at a quiet bar downtown. Elena had changed—laugh lines around her eyes, confidence in her posture. She'd left corporate law for nonprofit work. 'I realized I was helping rich people stay rich,' she said, swirling her wine. 'What about you? Still living the dream?'

Marcus laughed bitterly. 'The dream died somewhere around year six. Now I'm just... working.'

'You remember that baseball game?' Elena asked suddenly. 'When the Cubs lost in the ninth, and we ended up talking until dawn about what we actually wanted from life?'

'I wanted to be someone who mattered,' Marcus said. 'Now I'm just someone who makes things that don't matter matter to people who already have too much.'

Elena reached across the table, took his hand. 'You still could matter. You're not dead yet, Marcus.'

He thought of Bubbles swimming endless circles in her tiny tank. Thought of the apartment waiting empty. The zombie feeling in his chest stirred—something hungry and waking.

'No,' Marcus said, squeezing her hand. 'Not yet.'