The Goldfish Gambit

The goldfish—let's call him Kevin—was supposed to be mine for like, twenty minutes. Just until my mom got home from her shift and I could dump him in the proper tank in the garage. But then Leo showed up with pizza and that energy he always brought, the one that made everything feel possible, and suddenly Kevin was swimming in a mixing bowl on my nightstand and Leo was live-tweeting the whole saga like it was the most dramatic thing to happen since Sarah Miller and Jake broke up at homecoming.

"You're literally keeping him?" Leo asked, sprawled across my bed while I struggled to connect the coaxial cable to my ancient TV so we could binge-watch the show everyone was obsessing over. "Because that's not sus at all."

"I'm not keeping him," I said, though we both knew I was already attached. "I'm just... bearing witness to his journey."

Leo snorted so hard he almost choked on his pizza. "Bearing witness? Since when do you talk like a philosophy major?"

That was the thing about Leo—always pushing, always teasing, but in the way that made you feel seen, even when you didn't want to be. We'd been best friend since sixth grade, when he'd defended me against some eighth graders who were making fun of my homemade Halloween costume. I'd been a bear—like, full-on furry suit—and Leo had told them it was actually sick, not cringe, and then spent the rest of the day complimenting my "commitment to the bit."

But sophomore year was changing everything. Leo had joined basketball and suddenly had practices and parties and people I didn't know. I was still the same guy who won a goldfish at a carnival and decided to name him Kevin because it felt like the right thing to do.

"Your mom's gonna kill you," Leo said, but he was grinning. "This has 'disaster' written all over it."

"Then help me figure it out," I said. "You're the one with actual social skills."

He considered this, tapping the side of the mixing bowl. Kevin swam to the surface, opening and closing his mouth like he had opinions to share.

"Okay," Leo said, sitting up. "But we're doing this my way. And if Kevin doesn't make it, I'm taking full credit for the eulogy."

That night felt like something out of a coming-of-age movie—we snuck into the garage at midnight, found the tank, and set up everything while whispering about everything and nothing. Leo told me about the pressure of basketball, about how he felt like he had to perform this version of himself that didn't quite fit. I told him about feeling left behind, about how it seemed like everyone else was growing up and I was just... there.

"You're not behind," he said, finally. "You're just on your own timeline. And Kevin's on his timeline. We're all just swimming in circles, bro."

I laughed. "That's literally what goldfish do."

"Exactly." He bumped my shoulder. "So we're basically all Kevin."

Kevin lived, by the way. Like, surprisingly long. And sometimes, when Leo came over after practice smelling like gym socks and exhaustion, we'd both just stare at the tank and let the silence do the work it was supposed to do. The kind that says everything without saying anything at all.

Growing up is weird like that—sometimes the people who matter stick around for the goldfish moments, the stupid ones that end up meaning everything, and sometimes they drift away like cables that stop connecting. But Kevin's still there, swimming his circles, and every time Leo texts me "how's our boy?" I know some things are worth keeping, even when they seem small.