The Goldfish Protocol

Cleo's room was a shrine to loneliness. Posters of bands she'd never actually seen peeling from walls the color of regret. The only living thing that didn't judge her was Barnaby, a goldfish with more personality than half the kids at Northwood High.

"You're the only friend who gets me," she whispered, sprinkling flakes into his bowl. Barnaby did a little flip, which she chose to interpret as agreement.

Last month, Cleo had become something she never thought she'd be: a spy. Not the cool, movie kind with gadgets and European villains. The pathetic kind. She'd created a fake Instagram account just to watch what her ex-best group was doing without her. The friend group that had somehow reconfigured itself like a broken puzzle, leaving her as the missing piece.

Her dad worked for the cable company, which meant two things: free premium channels and a house full of coaxial cables that snaked through every room like technological vines. Today he'd asked her to help him "troubleshoot the router," which was dad-speak for "I don't know why the internet keeps dying and you're good with tech."

She was kneeling behind the TV, untangling a mess of cables when her phone buzzed. A notification from her spy account: Maya—the girl who'd seamlessly replaced her in the friend group—had posted a photo. Cleo's stomach did that familiar twist. But then she actually looked at it.

Maya was sitting alone in a coffee shop, caption: "sometimes the loudest rooms are the quietest inside."

Cleo stared. Maya, who always had someone on her arm, who Cleo had assumed was living her best post-Cleo life?

Her dad's voice called from the hallway. "Hey, can you check if the cable's secure on your end?"

"Yeah," Cleo said, but she was already typing. Not as her spy account. As herself.

"I like that coffee shop. The barista never gets my name right."

She set her phone down, heart hammering. A goldfish circled his bowl, slow and patient. Some connections take time to grow. Others just need someone to tug the right cable.

Three minutes later, her phone lit up. Maya: "Omg SAME. She thinks I'm called 'Clara' now."

Cleo smiled. Maybe she wasn't as invisible as she thought. Maybe none of them were.