The Goldfish at the Bottom of the Pool

Maya lay floating on her back in the apartment complex pool at midnight, the water cool against her skin, the city's orange sky reflected in ripples around her. She'd taken her **vitamin** supplements that morning, same as every day, same hollow routine since Richard left three months ago. The **swimming** pool lights flickered, creating dancing patterns on the concrete.

Her **iPhone** buzzed on the poolside chair—probably another drunk text from him, or maybe her mother checking in again. She ignored it. The water held her weight like a lover who wouldn't let go, safe and suffocating all at once.

She remembered their last fight, the way he'd screamed that she was cold, emotionless, clinical. He'd been right, in his way. She swallowed her feelings like little orange **goldfish** crackers, compact and processed, never letting herself taste the real thing.

Then came **lightning**, not in the sky but inside her chest—a sudden realization that Richard wasn't coming back, that the apartment was full of ghosts, that she'd been holding her breath underwater for years. She'd traded passion for security, depth for comfort. Now she was drowning in the shallow end.

Maya stood up, water streaming down her body like tears she couldn't cry anymore. She grabbed her phone, deleted the unread message without looking, and walked toward her apartment, where a real goldfish—she'd bought it on impulse, like she'd bought everything else important—swam lazy circles in its bowl.

She poured the fish into the pool and watched it dart away, alive for the first time.