The Goldfish Monologue
Marcus stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his grandfather's faded fedora. The hat was two sizes too big, sliding down over his eyebrows, but it made him feel like someone who had their life together. Someone who didn't spend Friday nights talking to a goldfish.
"You're never gonna believe what happened at lunch," he told Bubbles, who was doing lazy laps in her bowl on the counter. "I was sitting with Sarah and her crew, right? And I reached into my backpack to grab a vitamin—because, you know, gotta stay healthy—and instead, I accidentally pulled out this massive goldfish cracker from yesterday."
Bubbles floated to the surface, her mouth opening and closing in what Marcus pretended was silent laughter.
"I know, I know. Sarah's like, 'Is that a... goldfish?' And I'm just standing there, holding this cheese-dusted fish like an idiot while everyone's watching. I played it off, though. Said it was, like, a conceptual art piece about consumerism or something."
Marcus adjusted his hat again. It was his armor. With it on, he was smooth. Confident. The kind of guy who could talk to Sarah without his voice cracking.
"The worst part?" he whispered, leaning closer to the bowl. "She actually bought it. Said it was 'deep.' So now I'm the artsy, philosophical guy, which is honestly a whole new problem because now I have to keep pretending I understand French cinema and stuff."
His phone buzzed. Sarah had messaged him: *That goldfish bit was actually kinda brilliant. Want to hang tomorrow?*
Marcus stared at the screen, then at Bubbles, then at his reflection in the mirror. The hat tilted crookedly. The vitamin bottle sat on the counter next to a bag of goldfish crackers.
"Maybe," he said, finally smiling, "being yourself is overrated. Maybe the trick is finding the right version of yourself to be."
He fed Bubbles a pinch of flakes. She swam to the top, grateful and unsuspecting.
"You're not gonna tell anyone, right?"
She just kept swimming, which Marcus figured was as good a promise as any.