The Goldfish Theory

I was operating on pure zombie mode—three hours of sleep, two AP exams, and enough caffeine to power a small nuclear reactor. Welcome to finals week, where we all temporarily become the walking dead, roaming school halls with dark circles like war paint.

"You look terrible," Maya said, effortlessly spinning her padel racket between practices. She was the only person I knew who could make sweat look intentional. "Coach is gonna bench you if you keep spacing out during drills."

"I'm fine," I lied, vision blurring as I reached for my water bottle. My hands were shaking. Everything felt distant, like I was watching my life from behind glass.

That's when I remembered Mr. Henderson's biology lesson about goldfish—they have a three-second memory span. Sometimes I wished I could be that lucky. Forget the embarrassing moments, the college rejections, the fact that my crush had been dating my lab partner for weeks without me noticing.

"Hey," Maya's voice cut through my spiral. "You good? You're staring at my racket like it's about to attack."

"Just thinking about goldfish," I mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Long story."

I skipped practice that day. Called it "academic emergency" which was basically code for "I'm having a minor existential crisis and need to stare at my ceiling while my cat, Mochi, judges my life choices from the windowsill."

Mochi, a creature of zero loyalty and maximum chaos, was currently batting at my goldfish bowl. RIP, Bubbles. We'd been through three fish this semester. At this point, I was basically sponsoring a serial killer in cat form.

"You know what, Mochi?" I whispered, lying on my floor while afternoon light pooled like liquid gold across my room. "Maybe we're all just goldfish swimming in circles, thinking we're going somewhere when we're really just... looping."

She meowed, then knocked over my water glass. Perfect.

But here's the thing—being a teenager is basically just surviving a zombie apocalypse of expectations, social pressure, and your own brain trying to destroy you. And somehow, through all the mess, you find your people. Like Maya, who showed up twenty minutes later with boba and zero questions.

"Goldfish memory," she said, handing me the drink. "Let's just forget today happened and start fresh. Tomorrow's another match."

"Noted," I said, and meant it. Sometimes the best strategy is just to keep swimming. Even when you can't remember why you started in the first place.