The Goldfish Funeral

I walked into third period chemistry feeling like a total zombie. Three hours of sleep will do that to you. No, wait—it was four years of moving through hallways like I was underwater, everyone else swimming past while I could barely remember how to breathe.

"Alex! You okay? You look dead."

That was Maya, sliding into the seat beside me. We'd been lab partners since September, and she somehow made everything feel lighter. Like gravity worked differently around her.

"Rough night," I mumbled, which wasn't exactly a lie. Bubbles—my last surviving goldfish from that carnival win last summer—had started doing that weird floating thing fish do right before they go to that great fishbowl in the sky.

I'd won Bubbles and three other fish trying to impress someone whose name I literally couldn't remember now. Classic me, right? All four fish had died within weeks except Bubbles, who'd somehow survived my terrible pet-parent skills and my mom's accidental overfeeding attempts. Bubbles was a fighter.

"My fish is dying," I said, and immediately regretted it. Who admits that? But the words just spilled out like water from a broken glass.

Maya didn't laugh. "That sucks. I mean, really sucks. What's his name?"

"Bubbles. Original, I know."

"No, it's perfect. Bubbles is a legend."

Something about the way she said it—like she actually meant it—made my chest weirdly tight.

"My grandma always said fish funerals are real, you know," Maya added. "Like, you have to do it right or they come back as ghosts."

I stared at her. "Fish ghosts? That's not a thing."

"You willing to risk it?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm absolutely down for a proper Bubbles sendoff. My backyard, sunset, we say nice things about how he was the OG carnival survivor."

I should've said no. I should've made a joke. But instead I heard myself say, "Tonight?"

Her smile was actual sunshine. "Tonight."

So there we were—two awkward sixteen-year-olds, kneeling by her garden pond, Bubbles wrapped in a tissue printed with tiny anchors. The water lapped at the edges, reflecting the pink-orange sky. I said something about how Bubbles had been there through SAT prep and my parents' divorce and all those nights I couldn't sleep, just swimming in his little bowl like the world wasn't on fire.

Maya nodded seriously like this was the most important speech ever given. Then she sprinkled what I think was potting soil into the pond.

"Rest easy, Bubbles," she said. "You were a real one."

I laughed—it just came out. Maybe it was the release of finally letting go of the last piece of that terrible carnival night. Maybe it was the way Maya's nose scrunched when she was trying not to smile back.

"Thanks," I said, and it felt like the first real thing I'd said in months. "For... you know. Being a good friend."

"That's what we do," she said, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Besides, Bubbles would want us to get bubble tea after this. It's basically a tribute."