The Zombie Goldfish Protocol

Maya felt like a literal zombie as she dragged herself into third period AP Bio. Two hours of sleep because her mom decided 3 AM was the perfect time to practice her violin in the garage. Maya's eyelids were basically heavy curtains she couldn't lift.

"Dude, you look dead," whispered Jake, sliding into the seat next to her. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea," Maya groaned, fishing through her backpack. "My mom's new vitamin phase. She thinks if I take enough supplements, I'll magically develop perfect skin and a 4.0 GPA." She pulled out a bottle labeled ENERGY MAX and dry-swallowed two.

Jake snorted. "Bold of her to assume vitamins can fix senioritis."

Mr. Henderson started droning about cellular respiration, and Maya's brain officially went into power-saving mode. She pulled out her phone and stared at the photo of Luna—her golden retriever who'd decided that 2 AM was primo time to bark at absolutely nothing. Then she saw the text from her sister: **the goldfish is acting weird.**

Maya's heart dropped. Finley the goldfish had been her emotional support pet since freshman year, when everything felt impossible and she'd spend hours just watching him swim in tiny circles.

After school, she raced home to find Finley floating sideways at the top of his bowl.

"He's been like that for hours," her sister said, arms crossed. "I think he's gone."

Maya felt ridiculous for caring so much about a fish she'd won at a carnival, but she also felt like this one small thing was the only stable thing in her chaotic pre-grad life. She called Jake.

"Dude, it's a fish," Jake said when he showed up with chocolate. "But also, I get it. My dog ate my favorite sneakers freshman year and I literally cried for an hour."

They stood there, two almost-adults grieving a carnival goldfish, while Luna the golden retriever licked Jake's hand like they were best friends.

"Want me to help you... you know, give him a proper burial?" Jake asked.

Maya nodded, wiping her eyes. "In the backyard. Near the garden."

As they dug a tiny grave, Jake said, "You know, maybe your mom was right about the vitamins. But not for grades or skin. Maybe we just need something to keep us going through all this... growing up stuff."

Maya laughed through the tears. "You're saying the secret to surviving adolescence is... vitamins?"

"I'm saying," Jake said, "that sometimes we all feel like zombies. And sometimes your fish dies and you cry about it. And that's okay."

Luna barked, and Maya's phone buzzed—a text from her mom asking if she wanted to get boba after her violin practice. Suddenly, the zombie feeling lifted a little.