The Goldfish Summer

The ethernet cable behind my TV was a tangled mess, kinda like my thoughts whenever Jake walked past my locker at school. Senior year was supposed to be epic — parties, football games, finally making moves — but instead I was working part-time at Pet Paradise, watching goldfish swim in endless circles while my crush lived his best life without me.

"You're always low-energy," my mom said at dinner, sliding a bottle of vitamin D supplements across the table. "Maybe this will help with your... moods."

Moods. Right. Because the only thing more embarrassing than working at a pet store was having your mom basically call you depressed in front of your little sister, who immediately started making sad fish faces at me.

Friday night, everything changed. Jake showed up at Pet Paradise 15 minutes before closing, looking devastating in that hoodie that made my brain short-circuit. He needed a bear — actually, his little sister needed one for her birthday, and his mom had made him come because apparently he'd volunteered for pet-sitting duty and failed miserably.

"So," Jake said, leaning against the fish tanks while I frantically tried to look cool and not like someone who'd just spent eight hours cleaning turtle cages, "you come here often?"

I laughed before I could stop myself. "That's terrible."

"Yeah, well." His grin did things to my heart rate that should be illegal. "I'm working with what I've got."

Outside, the sky decided to absolutely lose it. Lightning flashed like something out of a movie, thunder shook the building's foundations, and the power went out with a dramatic flick.

We ended up sitting on the floor in the dark, my phone flashlight creating weird shadows across fish tanks full of confused goldfish that kept swimming up to the glass like tiny confused puppies.

"So," I said, my voice barely audible over the rain pounding the roof, "what's it like, being Jake Morrison?"

He was quiet for a second. "Honestly? It's exhausting. Everyone thinks they know you, but they just know the lacrosse captain, the guy who's good at parties."

I felt it then — that weird lightning-strike moment when you realize someone you've put on a pedestal is just another person trying to figure stuff out. "The goldfish have it easier," I said, and he laughed, this real laugh that wasn't performative at all.

We talked for two hours until the power came back. About his的压力 to be perfect, about my fear that I'd never figure out who I actually was, about how both our parents meant well but sometimes made everything harder. The goldfish watched it all, judgment free.

When he finally left, he didn't just say "see ya." He said, "Same time next Friday? I hear the hamsters need feeding."

Maybe senior year wasn't going to be exactly like I'd planned. But as I locked up the store, grinning like an idiot at nothing, I figured this version might actually be better.