The Goldfish Protocol

My life peaked at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday.

I was three hours deep into my weekly instagram investigation—aka, spying on Mia's profile from my burner account—when my iPhone battery hit 3%. Again. The screen dimmed like it was judging me, and I flopped backward onto my bed, staring at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars still refused to actually glow.

"You're pathetic, Finn," I told myself.

Then I told my goldfish.

"He's pathetic, right Bubbles?"

Bubbles, a majestic orange fantail with luxurious fins and zero brain cells, drifted to the front of his bowl and opened his mouth at me. That fish was the best listener I'd ever had. No judgment. No unsolicited advice about how I should just "talk to her already." Just steady, judgment-free bubble-blowing.

I peeled an orange with my thumbnails, the citrus spray hitting my eyes like tiny regret-tears. Mom had left a note on the counter: "Don't forget your vitamins! Immune system = everything!" She'd drawn a little smiley face that felt pointed somehow, like she knew I was spending my formative years developing skills exclusively useful in a dystopian surveillance state.

I swallowed the vitamin C tablet dry. It tasted like artificial orange and questionable decisions.

Here's the thing about spying on people through screens: it's safe. Mia's story showed her at a party last weekend, laughing with her head thrown back, hair everywhere. In the background, some guy I didn't recognize was making her laugh. Real laugh, not the polite one. My stomach did that thing where it forgot how to stomach.

"She's probably not even into guys like me," I said to Bubbles. "She probably likes guys who... I don't know, have hobbies that don't involve fish-based therapy."

Bubbles did a little flip. I'm choosing to interpret this as encouragement.

My thumb hovered over the DM button. The last message I'd sent—from my real account, not the spy one—had been three weeks ago: "lol yeah same." It had taken me twelve minutes to type.

I opened the orange I'd peeled and ate a segment. It was tart and bright and suddenly I was just... done. Done spying. Done lurking. Done being the protagonist of my own sad movie about a guy who watches life happen through other people's posts.

I typed: "Hey! Saw you got a goldfish too?? We should compare fish parenting skills sometime. Or not. Anyway, how's your week going?"

My finger actually pressed send this time.

Then I turned off my phone, fed Bubbles an extra pinch of flakes, and fell asleep before the anxiety could hit.

Woke up to a reply at 7:14 AM: "Omg yes!! His name is Sir Swimsalot and he judges me daily. This week is chaotic but better now 😂"

I looked at Bubbles. He looked back.

"Your move, Sir Swimsalot," I whispered.

My phone battery was at 87%. The world felt orange-colored and possible.