The Goldfish Code

My goldfish died the same day Jake Miller texted me. Okay, that's not entirely true — Captain Finbers had been floating sideways for three days, a clear sign he'd moved on to better fishbowls in the sky. But I officially flushed him at 4:17 PM, right when my phone buzzed with Jake's name on the screen.

Jake Miller, who played baseball like he invented the sport and smiled like he knew secrets about the universe. Jake Miller, who I'd been lowkey obsessed with since seventh grade health class when we got paired together for that awkward CPR dummy project.

"Hey," the text read. Just that. One word that sent my heart into nervous system failure.

I stared at my ceiling, suddenly feeling like a total spy in my own life. Who was I anymore? The girl who couldn't keep a living creature alive? The one who'd watched Jake from across the cafeteria so many times I'd memorized his laugh? I was basically stalking him at this point, and not even in a cute way.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, rain drumming against my window like it was trying to tell me something. That's when it hit me — I'd spent so long watching Jake live his life that I'd forgotten to live mine. I was the goldfish, swimming in endless circles, waiting for someone to tap on the glass.

"Hey," I texted back. Then deleted it. Then retyped it. Then hit send before I could overthink it into oblivion.

"Wanna hang out?"

I held my breath. Maybe Jake Miller was just a boy who played baseball and sometimes smiled at me. Maybe I was just a girl who recently murdered her pet fish and was currently having an existential crisis during a thunderstorm. Maybe that was enough.

My phone buzzed again. "Pick you up at 7?"

I smiled at the storm, already planning my outfit. Captain Finbers would understand. Some things were worth swimming toward the glass for.