The Goldfish Behind Home Plate

I'd been spying on Leo for three weeks. Not creepy-stalking, just strategic observation from my seat behind the bleachers, cataloging his routines: fifth period chem, the way he chewed his lip when concentrating, how his baseball cap sat perfectly crooked like he'd never once adjusted it in a mirror.

I felt like a zombie most days. Between AP classes, my mom's new overnight shift, and my late-night Leo reconnaissance sessions, I was running on caffeine and three hours of sleep. My eyes burned, my brain felt like mush, and I'd started talking to my pet goldfish, Finn, because he was the only one who didn't ask me what was wrong.

Friday's baseball game changed everything. I sat in the bleachers, pretending to understand innings while actually tracking Leo's every move in center field. Sun beat down, crowd cheered, and I remained completely zoned in on him.

Then it happened—the ball sailed toward the fence, right where I'd strategically positioned myself. Leo sprinted over, breathing hard, and our eyes locked. Time stopped.

"Nice view back here," he said, gesturing at my perfect spying vantage point. He knew.

My face burned. "I'm just—"

"Kidding," he grinned, and something in his chest expanded. "You're at every game. You must really love baseball."

"I mean, it's okay," I lied, because suddenly baseball was the most interesting sport in existence.

"Leo," he said, extending a hand.

"Maya," I managed, and when our hands touched, electricity shot through me. I wasn't a zombie anymore. I was awake, alive, terrified.

"See you at the next game?" he asked, already backing away.

"Definitely."

That night, floating Finn to the front of his bowl, I whispered, "He noticed me."

The goldfish did a perfect little flip.

Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe Finn was celebrating. Or maybe goldfish just know things sometimes.

Either way, I'm done being a spy. Next game, I'm sitting in the front row.