The Last Goldfish

Emma found him in the bathroom, perched on the closed toilet lid, watching the fishbowl like it held answers to questions he'd never asked. The bowl sat on the windowsill, clouded with time, and inside, a single goldfish traced the same endless loop—wall to wall, turn, wall to wall.

"You're still here," she said, leaning against the doorframe. Her heart did that stupid skip thing it always did with Marcus, even after three years of mostly silence.

He looked up, eyes the same gray as winter skies. "Packing's exhausting. Needed a break."

They'd been friends first, then something more, then nothing at all. The transition had cost her pieces she'd never fully reclaimed.

"The apartment's yours next week," she said. "Everything goes, including this poor bastard." She gestured to the fish.

Marcus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Since when do you keep pets?"

"Since David left him behind. Said it was too much hassle to transport. Can you imagine? Leaving a living thing because it's inconvenient?"

The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

He stood, joints popping. "You kept it, though."

"I keep lots of things I should let go of." She let the weight of that settle between them. In the other room, her life was packed into cardboard boxes, stripped down to essentials. Only the goldfish remained, swimming in circles like memory itself.

"I'm getting married," Marcus said.

Emma felt it like a physical blow, sharp and immediate. "Oh. Congratulations."

"Her name's Sarah. She's wonderful. She—she doesn't know about us. About that summer."

"Good," Emma said, and meant it. Some things were better left unspoken. "Why tell me now?"

"Because you're selling this place. Because you're moving to Portland. Because I've been avoiding you for three years and that's not fair. To either of us."

In the bowl, the goldfish turned again, never realizing it had seen the same wall a thousand times before.

"The cable," Emma said suddenly. "That's the only thing I couldn't box. The one behind the TV. It's tangled in something, maybe the wall itself. I tried to pull it free last night."

"Let me help."

They ended up on the floor together, shoulders brushing, unraveling the knotted cord that ran from the wall to nowhere. His fingers were warm against hers. For three years, she'd missed this—the easy comfort, the way their bodies fit together like they'd been designed for it.

"There," he said, finally freeing it. The cable lay between them like an offering, or maybe a severance.

"Thanks."

"Emma—"

"Don't," she said gently. "Sarah sounds wonderful. Be happy, Marcus."

He kissed her forehead, just once, like closing a book you've read too many times. "You too. Portland—new start, right?"

"Right."

At the door, he paused. "What about the fish?"

She looked at the bowl, at the creature swimming its endless, forgetful circles. "Coming with me. Someone needs to remember."

After he left, Emma sat on the toilet lid again, watching the goldfish, wondering if it ever questioned the shape of its world or simply swam through whatever water it was given. Both seemed equally exhausting.

The cable lay coiled on the floor like a question she'd finally stopped asking.