The Goldfish Summer

The humidity was thick enough to chew on. Carlos sat at the edge of the community pool, his legs dangling in the cool blue water, watching steam rise off the surface like ghosts of better days. In three weeks, his best friend since kindergarten would be moving to Austin. They'd made big plans to spend one last summer together before everything changed.

"You look like you're plotting someone's murder," Mia said, dropping beside him and handing over an orange soda. The condensation was already dripping down the can.

"Just thinking about how weird it's gonna be without him," Carlos said, cracking open the soda. "Like, who'm I gonna play baseball with? Who's gonna understand my dumb references?"

Mia shrugged. "You'll make new friends. It's not like he's dying."

"I know, but it's different. He's the guy who helped me catch my first foul ball. The one who let me keep that goldfish I won at the carnival in his room when my mom said no pets."

Carlos had been through five goldfish that summer. Each one lasted about three days before floating to the top of its bowl. He kept replacing them, like somehow he'd get it right eventually. It was stupid, but it felt like if he could keep one goldfish alive, he could keep anything alive. Even friendships that were supposed to be moving two states away.

"The goldfish thing is lowkey tragic," Mia said, but she was smiling. "Maybe you're not supposed to keep them forever. Maybe they're just... practice."

"Practice for what?"

"For the stuff that actually matters. Real friendships don't float just because someone moves. You'll still text, still FaceTime, still visit. It's gonna be fine, Carlos. You're overthinking it."

She was probably right. Carlos splashed water at her, and she squealed and splashed back. For a minute, they were just two kids at the pool on a hot July afternoon, not thinking about goodbyes or goldfish or the way time moved faster when you were trying to hold onto it.

The sun was setting behind the trees, turning everything orange and pink and golden. Carlos fished out his phone and texted his friend: we still on for baseball tomorrow?

Yeah, came the reply almost immediately. wouldn't miss it.

Carlos smiled. Maybe Mia was right. Maybe some things did float, but the real ones—the friendships, the memories, the parts of summer that mattered—those would stick around. They'd just look different from afar, like a baseball field viewed from outside the fence, or a goldfish seen through the curved glass of its bowl.

"Wanna get ice cream?" Mia asked, standing up and shaking water from her hands. "My treat."

"Always," Carlos said, grabbing his towel. "Always."