The Goldfish Pyramid

Maya stared at the empty goldfish bowl on her nightstand. RIP Bubbles, gone too soon at the tender age of three weeks. The memorial service had been emotional, even if her cat Mochi spent the entire time trying to knock over the tiny construction paper pyramid she'd built as a tombstone.

"You're being ridiculous," said Jayden, FaceTiming her from what looked like the back of an Uber. "It was a fish. A fish that cost $2.49 at Petco."

"You don't understand loss," Maya shot back, adjusting her backwards baseball hat. "Some bonds transcend financial value."

"Maya, your cat literally tried to eat Bubbles twice last week."

"That's just Mochi's love language."

Friday night, and here she was, arguing about fish mortality while everyone else was at Tyler's party. The cable bill was overdue again, which meant no WiFi until her mom remembered to pay it. She was using her neighbor's leaked connection, which cut out every time someone opened the refrigerator.

"You coming tonight or what?" Jayden asked. "Tyler's parents are literally in Cabo. There's a hot tub."

Maya looked at her goldfish pyramid. At her phone with its 14% battery. At Mochi, who was now aggressively grooming herself on the math homework she'd abandoned two hours ago.

"Nah," she said. "I've got a pyramid to finish."

"What pyramid?"

"For Bubbles. Obviously."

Jayden groaned. "You're the weirdest person I know. That's why you're my favorite."

Maya smiled, feeling that weird warmth in her chest she always tried to ignore. "Bring me back a slice of pizza?"

"Obviously. With extra cheese."

After they hung up, Maya worked on her pyramid until 2 AM, carefully gluing tiny hieroglyphics she'd looked up on her phone before the signal died. Mochi finally fell asleep curled around the base, like a furry guardian protecting the soul of a fish she'd definitely tried to murder.

Some things didn't make sense. Like how she could miss a $2.49 goldfish this much. Or why her cat sat vigil for a pet she'd considered a crunchy snack. Or how Jayden always knew exactly what she needed.

The pyramid wasn't perfect. It leaned slightly to the left, like something that was trying but maybe not trying hard enough. Kind of like her.

Maya took a picture of it – the lopsided pyramid, the sleeping cat, the empty bowl beyond – and posted it with just a heart emoji.

By morning, there were 47 notifications. Tyler's party looked lame anyway.