The Last Swim

Maya traced the lifeline on my palm with her thumb that morning, the way she used to do when she couldn't sleep. "You're going to live a long time," she'd say, laughing, pressing her thumb harder into my skin until I could feel the ghost of her touch hours later. But she was wrong. The long time ended at 7:43 AM when her iPhone lit up with a text I wasn't supposed to see.

Now it's three weeks later and I'm standing in the pet store aisle, holding a plastic bag that contains a single orange goldfish. The clerk looks at me with pitying eyes, like she knows this fish won't make it either. Nothing does. Not really.

The goldfish swims in circles in its temporary home, oblivious to its inevitable fate. I wonder if that's better—knowing or not knowing. Maya knew. She must have known for months, maybe years, that we were swimming in different directions. I was the one performing tricks in the dark, waiting for food she'd stopped throwing.

My iPhone buzzes in my pocket. Her name appears again. Not a text this time—a notification that she's changed her profile picture to something without me in it. The new picture shows her on a beach somewhere, palm trees swaying behind her like they're mocking my inability to move.

I drive home with the goldfish on the passenger seat, its bag water sloshing with every turn. At home, I pour it into the empty tank she left behind. The glass sits on the dresser where her jewelry box used to be. The goldfish pauses, then darts behind the plastic castle, orange scales flashing like a warning.

"You'll forget me in three seconds anyway," I tell it, pressing my palm against the cold glass. "Maybe that's the gift."

But as I watch it swim—really watch it—I realize goldfish don't actually forget. That's a myth. They remember, they learn, they recognize faces. They just keep swimming because what else is there to do? The water keeps moving, and so do they.

I pick up my iPhone and draft a message I'll never send. Then delete it. Then sit on the edge of the bed and watch a fish that will outlive this grief, even if I won't.