The Goldfish at the End of the Hall

The office goldfish had been staring at me for three months. Its name was Gerald, according to the laminated printout taped to the bowl, though nobody had ever seen anyone feed him. He just floated there, opening and closing his mouth in that perpetual silent scream that goldfish do, while we all pretended to be working.

"You're running it again, aren't you?" Sarah asked, sliding into the chair beside me. She'd become my office friend after the merger, though I wasn't sure if that meant we were actually friends or just mutually trapped in adjacent cubicles.

"Running what?"

"The numbers. You get that look. Like you're drowning in spreadsheets."

I laughed, but it came out hollow. "There's water everywhere, Sarah. Just open your eyes."

Our boss, Roger — a man whose personality could best be described as "a bull who'd been denied entrance to the china shop and decided to just start charging through walls anyway" — had called a mandatory all-hands meeting. Something about "synergy" and "right-sizing" and other verbs that had lost all meaning.

"He's going to eviscerate us," Sarah whispered. "I heard him on the phone yesterday. He said we're not 'leaning in' enough. Whatever the fuck that means when you're analyzing quarterly returns."

"Bullshit," I said, and we both giggled like teenagers. But my stomach was twisted in knots.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I went for a run at 2 AM, the streets empty except for my own breath fogging in the cold air and the rhythmic slap of my sneakers on pavement. I kept thinking about Gerald, how he'd circle that tiny bowl forever, never knowing there was an ocean somewhere. The thought made me sick.

At work the next day, Roger announced the layoffs. Sarah's name was third on the list. She cried quietly at her desk while I pretended not to notice, typing meaningless emails about deliverables and action items and other words that didn't mean anything anymore.

The goldfish opened and closed his mouth. Silent. Screaming.

I walked out at noon. Just gathered my things and left, letting the door close behind me like a period at the end of a very short, very forgettable sentence. Somewhere, there was water that actually moved. Somewhere, there was a life that didn't feel like I was just swimming in circles.

I started running, and I didn't stop.