The Goldfish Summer

The carnival air smelled like popcorn and desperation, which was basically how sixteen felt most of the time. I stood there holding a plastic bag with my three-dollar goldfish—named Finn because obviously—while Jordan Evans leaned against the game booth looking like he owned the entire midway.

"Nice catch," he said, and I swear my palms started sweating so hard I could've filled a swimming pool. He was talking about the fish, but my brain immediately went there.

"Yeah, he's... definitely orange," I managed, tucking a stray hair behind my ear like the smooth goddess I wasn't.

Next morning at 7 AM, my mom appeared at my bedroom door with those horse-pill vitamins she'd been obsessed with since she read some article about teenage brain development. "Morning, sunshine! Time for your vitamin!"

"I'm literally dying," I said into my pillow.

"Your brain needs nutrients for all that learning." She set the giant pill on my nightstand next to Finn's temporary bowl. "By the way, that fish needs actual food, not just your emotional support."

Finn survived exactly four days. I found him floating sideways on Tuesday, which felt weirdly symbolic. Jordan Evans finally texted me on Thursday—*hey carnival girl*—and I spent twenty minutes analyzing the capitalization and comma placement with my best friend. We decided it meant he was interested but playing it cool, or he was just grammatically casual.

By Friday, I was lying on my bed staring at the empty fish bowl while my phone sat silent beside me. The vitamin pill was still on my nightstand, ignored and judging me.

Some things are fragile. Some things survive. Some things are just three-dollar fish that teach you about letting go.

Then my phone buzzed. *carnival girl wanna hang?*

I sat up, palms sweating again, and typed back. Some things, apparently, were just getting started.