The Goldfish Were Silent
The corporate aquarium held three goldfish—orange, white, and one that looked perpetually surprised. They swam in identical circles, eight hours a day, five days a week. Just like me.
"Your division's being reassigned," Chen said, not meeting my eyes. "Effective Monday."
I felt something hollow open in my chest. Seven years of spreadsheets, strategy decks, and mandatory happy hours, distilled into a three-sentence meeting in a glass-walled room that smelled of other people'sç´§å¼ .
I walked home without remembering the journey. My apartment smelled of stale coffee and the cat carrier I hadn't put away since the vet visit three weeks ago. Barnaby—my orange tabby with the judgmental stare—wove between my legs, purring like a small engine.
"At least one of us is employed," I said, scratching behind his ears.
I stood at the counter, peeling an orange. The spray of citrus hit my eyes, stinging. This was how it always happened—the mundane moments carrying the weight of everything unsaid. Sarah had left standing in this exact spot last autumn. She'd wanted more. I'd wanted to keep swimming in my comfortable circle.
The goldfish were silent, but they knew.
"I could take the package," I told Barnaby. He blinked slowly, unimpressed. "Relocation. Singapore."
The idea terrified me. New city, new apartment, new circles to swim. But something else shifted beneath the fear—a tiny, sharp thrill. The possibility of breaking the pattern.
I ate the orange in the darkening kitchen, feeling the juice on my fingers, sticky and real. Somewhere, in an office I wouldn't return to, three fish continued their endless laps. I picked up my phone and booked the ticket.