The Goldfish Protocol

I'd perfected the art of the spy mission without even trying. It's called being the quiet kid in the back of the classroom, the one everyone forgets exists while they're living their best lives. Tyler used to call me his best friend, but that was before eighth grade hit like a ton of bricks and suddenly I was the weird one who brought a Tupperware container of cut peppers instead of Lunchables.

"Dude, you still take those horse vitamin gummies?" Tyler had asked last week, his voice dropping to that stage whisper he always used around his new friends. The ones who wore curated outfits and talked about TikTok followers like they were currency. "My little sister stopped taking those in fourth grade."

I'd shrugged, feeling my face heat up. My mom called them "vitamin supplements" and swore they'd help me focus. Whatever that meant.

Now I sat on my bedroom floor, chin resting on my knees, watching Bubbles float sideways in his bowl. Goldfish are supposed to have three-second memories, which honestly sounded kind of peaceful sometimes. Forget who said what. Forget the way Tyler laughed when someone made fun of my vitamin gummies at lunch.

"At least you're real, Bubbles," I whispered.

His mouth opened and closed in tiny O's, bubbles rising to the surface.

My phone lit up. A notification from Tyler: "u busy?"

I stared at it, thumb hovering. Part of me wanted to ghost him—let him feel what it's like to be forgotten. But the other part, the part that remembered him sharing his goldfish crackers with me in kindergarten when I forgot my lunch, that part won.

"no," I typed back. "what's up?"

"can i come over? need to talk"

I set my phone down, heart doing that stupid flutter thing. Maybe things could change. Maybe he'd realized his new friends weren't worth it. Maybe—

But then another message popped up: "forget it nvm. jason's having ppl over. later."

I turned my phone face-down and looked at Bubbles again, floating there in his little glass world, probably forgetting everything every three seconds. Some days, that sounded like exactly what I needed.