The Last Fish in the Building

The goldfish circled its glass bowl, oblivious to the fact that it was now the sole living occupant of the entire office tower. Maya watched it from her ergonomic chair, her palm pressed against the cool surface of her desk, feeling the sweat that had nothing to do with the building's failing climate control.

"They're shutting down the fiber optic cable at noon," the email had read. "Please remove all personal items by Friday."

Friday was today. Friday was three hours ago.

The goldfish — unofficially named Chairman Meow by the marketing team before they were laid off in round one — had been left behind by someone from HR. Maya had been feeding it flakes from her emergency stash, watching it grow from a speck of orange to something resembling an actual creature with personality. It would follow her finger along the glass, opening and closing its mouth in what she liked to imagine was conversation.

"You're going to make me the bad guy, aren't you?" she whispered.

Outside, the city hummed with lives that had kept moving forward. Somewhere, her ex was probably explaining to their new partner why Maya had been so difficult, so unable to compromise. She'd always been too much — too intense, too unwilling to settle for the practical choice over the meaningful one. Now here she was, clinging to the last physical remnant of a career that had defined her identity for seven years, unable to leave even a fish behind.

Her phone buzzed — a recruiter from that startup that sold "sustainable productivity solutions." They'd offered her a job last month. She'd ghosted them.

Maya stood up, her palm leaving a faint print on the desk. She picked up the fish bowl. The water swirled, and Chairman Meow darted nervously.

"Fine," she said. "But you're sleeping on the nightstand. And if you die, it's not my fault."

The cable modem lights flickered for the last time as she walked toward the elevator, carrying her new roommate toward whatever came next.