The Goldfish Monologues

The carnival goldfish—named Breadstick, because why not—stared at me with what I swear was judgment from its bowl on my nightstand. This fish had seen things. Specifically, it had seen me spiral over whether I could survive cross-country practice without dying.

"You don't get it," I told Breadstick. "I can't keep running from who I am."

My older brother leaned against my doorframe, wearing his lucky beanie—the one he refused to wash through our entire undefeated football season. "Running isn't the problem, Maya. It's what you're running toward that matters."

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my brain. "Thanks, Yoda. Now can you help me with something actual?"

"Depends. Are we talking about the homecoming mascot tryouts tomorrow?"

I froze. "How'd you—"

"Mom found your bear costume in the laundry room," he said, fighting back laughter. "Please tell me you're not gonna wear that thing."

"It's not a bear costume," I protested, though technically he wasn't wrong. "It's a performance piece about how we're all forced into these ridiculous boxes and expected to perform for everyone else's entertainment."

He stared at me.

"What? It's meta."

"You're gonna wear a bear costume and give a monologue about societal expectations in front of the entire school." He nodded slowly. "Bold strategy."

"I have to do something," I said. "Everyone expects me to be this quiet cross-country girl who just runs and gets good grades. But I'm more than that. I have things to say."

The next day, I stood backstage in that sweaty bear head, my heart pounding like I'd just sprinted a 5K. The announcer called my name.

I walked out. The audience went quiet.

"Hey everyone," I said through the mesh mouth, voice slightly muffled. "I'm a bear. But like, metaphorically. Aren't we all?"

Someone laughed. Someone else booed.

"We're all just pretending," I continued, my voice growing stronger. "Pretending to be normal. Pretending we belong. Pretending we know who we're supposed to be. But maybe the whole point is that we don't have to choose one thing. We can be cross-country runners AND performance artists. We can be quiet AND loud. We can be all of it."

I pulled off the bear head.

"My name is Maya, and I'm done pretending."

The silence stretched. Then Jason from my English class started clapping. Slowly at first, then faster. Within seconds, half the gym was cheering.

That night, Breadstick swam to the front of his bowl like he actually cared. I placed the folded bear costume on my desk instead of hiding it in the closet.

Some things didn't need to be packed away anymore.