The Goldfish Summer

The internet went down exactly twelve minutes into my Discord call with Finn. One minute I was complaining about Mr. Harrison's physics final, the next my screen froze on his half-open mouth like something out of a horror movie.

"Cable's out," my mom called from the kitchen. "Again."

I stared at the black screen. No WiFi meant no Finn, no TikTok doomscroll, no escape from the thoughts I'd been dodging all week.

That's when I noticed it.

The goldfish bowl on my desk, cloudy and neglected. Named Orange by six-year-old me, now floating aimlessly in water that hadn't been changed in—how long? Two months? Three?

The guilt hit me like a physical thing. I'd been so wrapped up in maintaining my carefully curated online persona that I'd let an actual living thing suffer. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"You're literally the worst," I muttered, reaching for the bowl.

My cat, Luna, chose that exact moment to launch herself from the floor like a fuzzy orange missile. She landed on my desk, tail twitching, eyes locked on Orange like he was personally responsible for her empty food bowl.

"No," I said, grabbing her mid-pounce. "He's family. Sort of."

She yowled like I'd stolen her birthright.

I carried the bowl to the bathroom, Luna winding through my legs like she was trying to trip me. As I poured out the nasty water and replaced it with fresh, clean from the tap, I remembered what the pet store guy had said when I bought Orange four years ago: "They're simple creatures. Give them clean water, remember they exist, and they'll keep living."

Simple creatures.

I thought about Finn, about our conversation earlier. How I'd spent forty-five minutes complaining while he'd barely gotten a word in. How I hadn't asked about his college applications, or the family stuff he'd hinted at last week.

Some friend I was.

The cable was still out when I returned Orange to his clean bowl. He actually seemed happier, doing these excited little loops that made me smile despite myself. I pulled out my phone—no service there either—and opened my notes app.

Started a list: Questions for Finn. Real ones.

Luna jumped onto my bed, curled up like she hadn't just tried to commit murder, and purred. Outside my window, the neighborhood went about its business while I sat there, disconnected from everything that usually consumed my attention.

For the first time all summer, I didn't mind the quiet.

"Okay," I whispered to Orange. "New deal. I remember you exist, you don't die. We both grow as people."

He did another loop.

I'm pretty sure that counts as agreement.