The Riddle in the Fishbowl

The carnival goldfish - won it sophomore year when Jake Peterson thought I'd be impressed by his ring-toss skills. Now it's just "Fish" (yeah, I know, creative) swimming in its bowl on my nightstand, three years of short-term memory I can't relate to.

"Dude, are you even listening?" Maya's on FaceTime, looking like she's about to lose it.

"I'm listening! You're telling me about Tyler's party."

"Not just TELLING you,"

I'm frantically scanning my room. The ethernet cable's a tangled mess behind my bed, and Dad's breathing about grounding me until college if he catches me sneaking out again. His wellness-phase vitamin gummies stare accusingly from my desk - apparently they're supposed to help with "teen brain development," whatever that means.

I watch the goldfish surface. Its tiny mouth opens and closes, performing its silent, repetitive routine. Just like me.

The whole night unfolds like a cosmic joke - my best friend might actually like me, I'm debating whether to sneak out, and suddenly I'm desperate to solve this monumental riddle: how do I become someone who takes risks?

Because right now, I'm just sitting here watching a fish with zero long-term memory while my chance to actually live slips away.