The Goldfish Who Knew

Marcus had become a zombie of his former self. Three months after Sarah left, he was still swimming through the days on autopilot—dead eyes, mechanical movements, the bare minimum to keep existing. His coworkers didn't notice. Neither did his friends. But the goldfish did.

She floated in her bowl on the windowsill, orange fins catching morning light like stained glass. Sarah had bought her on their first anniversary, naming her Fortuna because goldfish supposedly bring luck. Now Fortuna was the last living thing in his apartment that remembered what his laughter sounded like.

Marcus sat before the bowl, watching her swim in endless circles. She'd pause, drift to the surface, those unblinking eyes fixed on him as if waiting. For what, he didn't know. Food? Company? Recognition?

"You're still here," he whispered. The words felt foreign in his throat.

Fortuna blew bubbles.

That's when it hit him—she'd outlasted the relationship, the apartment's warmth, his capacity to feel anything beyond numbness. She just kept swimming, day after day, in the same small circumference. Like him.

His phone buzzed on the counter. Sarah's name lit the screen. His heart did something it hadn't done in weeks—it stuttered.

He reached for the phone, then stopped. His reflection caught in the glass: hollow cheeks, eyes that hadn't truly seen anything in months. A zombie, indeed.

Marcus turned back to the goldfish. She was swimming near the bottom now, orange scales shimmering like embers in a dying fire.

"What do you know that I don't?" he asked.

She surfaced, gulped air, and descended again.

And Marcus finally understood—she wasn't waiting for him to be who he was. She was just there. Swimming. Existing. That was enough.

He let the phone buzz itself silent. Tomorrow, he'd buy a bigger bowl. Maybe a plant. Maybe, eventually, he'd remember how to be something other than dead.

Fortuna swam on, patient as time itself.