The Goldfish Protocol

Maya's room smelled like pet store water and existential dread. Her goldfish, Bubbles (she'd named him in fifth grade, okay?), swam in endless circles around his bowl—literally living his best life while she was out here surviving junior year like it was a toxic relationship.

She felt like a spy sometimes. Not the cool James Bond type with gadgets and theme songs, but the creepy wallflower kind who noticed everything but said nothing. She knew Sarah Jenkins was definitely cheating on her math tests. She knew Mr. Harrison's toupee was definitely not natural. She'd cataloged the entire social hierarchy of Westwood High like it was her personal intelligence dossier.

Baseball practice was her reconnaissance mission. Every Tuesday and Thursday, she'd "forget" something in her locker and linger by the gym doors, watching through the crack as Tyler Chavez rounded third base. Tyler, with his stupid perfect hair and that orange under Armour shirt that made his shoulders look like they were sponsored by a sports drink company.

The orange of that shirt haunted her dreams. It was ridiculous. She hated orange. It was the color of traffic warnings and caution tape and that time she'd tripped in the cafeteria with a full tray of spaghetti.

"You're literally worse than my goldfish," she muttered to herself. "At least Bubbles doesn't overthink everything."

But that Thursday, something shifted. Tyler struck out—hard. The bat went flying. He cursed loudly enough that even the coaches noticed. Later, outside the gym, he was sitting alone on the concrete, shoulders slumped, still wearing that orange shirt like it was mocking him.

Maya's spy instincts screamed WALK AWAY. This was a trap. This was social suicide.

She sat down beside him anyway.

"You okay?" she asked, because apparently she'd lost her mind.

Tyler looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "College scouts were there. I choked."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Yeah."

Silence stretched between them like a tightrope.

"My goldfish has better hand-eye coordination than me," she blurted, because nervous talking was her actual superpower.

Tyler laughed—a real one, not the fake polite one he used at school. "Your goldfish plays baseball?"

"Bubbles lives in a bowl. He literally just swims in circles and judges me. It's a whole vibe."

"Bubbles," Tyler repeated, grinning now. "Solid name. What did you name your other pets?"

"Just him. He's enough of a handful."

They sat there until the parking lot emptied, talking about everything and nothing. His goldfish story was worse—his had died because he forgot to feed it for three weeks. She didn't have the heart to tell him that was tragic neglect.

"Hey," he said, standing up. "You play, uh... baseball?"

"I play observer. It's less cardio."

"Cool. Maybe you can teach me your spy techniques sometime."

Her face burned hot enough to power a small city. "I'm not a spy, I just... notice things."

"You noticed I was upset," he said, and something in his voice made her chest feel weird. "That's not nothing."

That night, Bubbles swam to the front of his bowl and did a little flip. Maya could've sworn he was judging her less than usual.

Operation: Stop Living Like a Ghost was officially in progress.