The Goldfish Manifesto

Maya's parents signed her up for padel lessons because apparently tennis was too basic. Now here she was, sweating through her third overpriced private lesson while her instructor kept saying things like "engage your core" and "find your rhythm" like she was some kind of athlete instead of a girl whose biggest athletic achievement was walking to the fridge during Netflix binges.

"Your form is getting better," Carlos said, which definitely meant "you're still terrible but I need you to re-sign for next month."

Afterwards, her mom handed her a green sludge. "Spinach and kale with vitamin C booster. It'll help your immune system."

Maya chugged it because refusing meant a twenty-minute lecture about how her body was a temple. Meanwhile, her pocket buzzed—her iPhone was blowing up with the group chat discussing Jessica's party that everyone was going to except her. Probably because she'd rather stay home.

She escaped to her room and flopped onto her beanbag, staring at her goldfish bowl. Finneghan had been her only reliable friend since seventh grade. He didn't require witty texts or curated posts or perfect padel serves. He just floated there, living his best fish life.

"You're living the dream, Finneghan," she said, dropping a pinch of food into his bowl. "No expectations. No one asking what you're doing after graduation."

Her phone lit up again. Jessica had posted a story—everyone looking perfect and golden and effortless. Maya felt that familiar twist in her stomach, the one that tasted like regurgitated spinach smoothie.

She thought about what her therapist had said about vitamin D deficiency and seasonal depression, but this wasn't seasonal. This was constant. This was the gap between who she was and who everyone thought she should be.

Maya pulled up Finneghan's Instagram account (yes, she'd made him one as a joke and now it was unironically her proudest achievement). She posted his latest photo—him mid-swim, looking contemplative. Caption: "POV: you're a fish and you don't have to play padel."

Her phone buzzed. Five likes. Two comments. Not from the popular crowd, but from people who actually got it.

Maybe that was the real vitamin she needed—not the supplements her mom pushed, but the actual act of being unapologetically herself. Even if it meant being weird. Even if it meant creating Instagram content for a goldfish.

Maya texted the group chat: "Who wants to come over and help me stage a photoshoot with my fish?"

First step to saving herself: leaning into the weirdness instead of hiding from it.