The Goldfish's Last Wish

The goldfish floated at the top of the bowl, its orange scales catching the afternoon light through the kitchen window. Marcus stared at it, wondering if fish experienced existential dread, or if that was exclusively his domain.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah had said that morning, grabbing her purse without looking at him. "Just going through the motions."

She wasn't wrong. Since the layoffs at the firm, Marcus had been swimming through days in a haze of unrejected résumés and ignored networking emails. The routine felt monstrous — wake, coffee, apply, reject, repeat. Like living inside a riddle he couldn't solve, trapped before an impassive sphinx that demanded answers he didn't have.

The baseball game played softly on the television. His father's voice echoed from memory: "You gotta keep your eye on the ball, son." But what ball? What game was he even playing anymore?

His phone buzzed. A text from his brother: "Mom's asking about you again. Dinner Sunday?"

Marcus watched the goldfish stir, its tail flicking lazily. Sarah had bought it on impulse three years ago, naming it Captain Finneas before losing interest within a week. Somehow, it had become his responsibility — like everything else in this apartment, like the dying fern on the balcony, like the relationship itself.

He dropped a flake of food into the bowl. The fish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in that perpetual, silent gasp.

"Yeah," Marcus whispered. "I know."

Later, he would fill the bathtub and slip into the water, letting himself sink until his ears submerged, until the world's roar became something distant and muffled. Floating there, suspended between surface and bottom, he would almost understand the goldfish's small, contained universe.

For now, he reached into the bowl and cupped the fish in his palm. It pulsed against his skin, alive and fragile. He walked to the balcony door, where the Boston skyline burned orange against the darkening sky.

"Go find something bigger," he said, and lowered the fish into his brother's pond below.

Inside, Sarah's keys jingled at the door. Marcus didn't turn. Some sphinxes remained unsolved, some riddles unanswered. But the water was still running in the bathroom, and for tonight, that would have to be enough.