The Goldfish Monologue

Maya's pet goldfish, Bubbles, had seen her cry more times than anyone else on Earth.

"You get it, right?" she whispered, dangling a flake of food over the bowl. Bubbles did that weird gasping thing goldfish do, which Maya decided meant "absolutely, bestie." She was spiraling before first period again, obsessing over the fact that Tyler—the actual fox of a boy who sat behind her in AP Bio—had finally noticed her yesterday. Mostly because she'd choked on a vitamin D gummy during her presentation and turned the color of a ripe tomato.

Rizz level: negative infinity.

Her phone buzzed. Group chat blowing up about Chloe's party Friday. Everyone was going. Including Tyler.

Maya flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. This was the thing no one told you about high school—the constant performance. You had to curate everything. Your outfits, your music taste, the way you laughed at jokes that weren't even funny. Sometimes she felt like she was watching herself from the corner of the room, some awkward character in a movie she hadn't written.

Her grandma always said she was like a fox—quiet, observant, waiting for the right moment. But Maya didn't feel foxy. She felt like a goldfish swimming in tiny circles, forgetting everything every three seconds, surviving on processed flakes and the kindness of whoever remembered to feed her.

Friday came anyway. Because time doesn't care about your existential crises.

Chloe's basement smelled like coconut candle and teenage desperation. Maya stood by the snack table, practicing casual poses in the reflection of a dark window. Then Tyler was there, holding two red cups.

"Hey," he said. "You're the girl from bio. The vitamin incident."

She wanted to dissolve into particles. "That's me. Professional supplement choker."

He laughed—actually laughed, not performative TikTok laugh. "It was kind of iconic. I respect the commitment to bit." They ended up on the back porch, talking about nothing and everything while the bass thudded through the walls. He had this habit of tilting his head when he was thinking, almost like a curious fox, and Maya felt something unclench in her chest.

Maybe that was the thing about growing up. You didn't become someone new. You just started letting people see who you actually were—the weird, awkward, goldfish-whispering truth of it.

"Hey," Tyler said as his ride pulled up. "Sit with me Monday?"

Maya walked home under streetlights, her phone buzzing with texts she'd answer later. Bubbles was probably gasping for dinner by now.

She'd tell him about this. He'd get it.