The Goldfish Monologues

I felt like a **zombie** walking into Jordan's house party—sleep-deprived from overthinking my outfit for three hours, brain half-fried from AP Chem overload. Max punched my shoulder. "Dude, loosen up. You're acting like you're at a funeral."

Easy for him to say. Max could **bear** any social situation with his varsity jacket confidence. Me? I was the guy who once got so nervous talking to Maya that I forgot my own name.

Then I saw her across the room—Chloe, the senior everyone whispered about. She had this fox-like cleverness in her eyes, like she knew things the rest of us were too basic to understand. Some called her manipulative. I called her fascinating.

I escaped to the bathroom to hyperventilate in peace. But someone was already there—Chloe, leaning against the sink, scrolling through her phone with zero expression.

"Occupied," she said, not looking up.

"Sorry, I'll—" I started, but then I noticed it. A **goldfish** bowl on the counter, one lonely fish swimming in circles.

"That's Bubbles," she said, finally meeting my eyes. "My ex's fish. He left it here when we broke up. Like, literally abandoned a living creature because he couldn't **bear** the responsibility."

"That's rough," I said. "I have a **cat** named Luna. She's the only one who doesn't expect me to be cool."

Chloe actually smiled. "Nice. What's your deal, anyway? You look like you're internally screaming."

"Externally too," I admitted. "This party is giving me major **zombie** vibes. Everyone performing, nobody real."

"Exactly." She slid down to sit on the floor tiles. "You know what they say about **goldfish**? Three-second memory. Imagine that. Just constantly rediscovering everything like it's new. No baggage, no overthinking."

"Sounds peaceful," I said, sitting beside her.

"Or terrifying. Like, who are you without your history?" Chloe studied me. "You're not like the others. You're actually real."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Both." She bumped my shoulder. "Hey, you want to get out of here? I know this place that has the best boba."

"Like... right now?"

"Unless you'd rather stay and perform for the audience."

We slipped out the back door. As we walked toward her car, Chloe's phone buzzed—probably another text from some guy trying to play **fox** games with her heart. She ignored it.

"So," she said. "What's your name, zombie boy?"

"Leo."

"Well, Leo. I have a feeling you and Luna are going to be just fine."

And for the first time all night, I didn't feel like I was faking it.