Three AM Goldfish Confessions

At 3:47 AM, Maya felt like a literal zombie. Three nights of cramming for AP Euro had transformed her into someone who recognized herself only in the rearview mirror of her mom's Honda, and even then, just barely.

Her phone buzzed on the desk—probably Leo, definitely Leo. The guy she'd been lowkey flirting with since October, who'd decided last week at Gavin's party that he needed "space" because things were "getting too real." Whatever that meant when you were sixteen.

Maya stared at her goldfish, Cornelius. The little orange blob swam in circles, his three-second memory span looking honestly ideal. Imagine living trauma-free, perpetually discovering your castle wreck for the first time. Cornelius didn't have to worry about whether Leo was texting her because he genuinely missed her or because he was bored at 3 AM. He just existed.

"You're living the dream, buddy," she whispered, dropping a pinch of flakes into his bowl.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Leo. Her cousin Sofia: "come outside"

Running downstairs in sweatpants and Leo's oversized hoodie (which she should absolutely return but wouldn't), Maya found Sofia sitting on the front porch, vaping mango something that smelled like chemicals and poor decisions.

"We're doing this," Sofia said, exhaling a cloud that drifted toward the streetlamps. "We're gonna run to that 24-hour bodega and buy the absolute worst junk food, then eat it on the elementary school playground like the emotional disasters we are."

"It's freezing, Sof."

"Perfect. Misery loves company."

So they ran—well, jogged—down the dark suburban streets, past the Olson's mailbox that someone kept knocking over, past the elementary school where Maya had once thrown up grape juice on Valentine's Day. They ran in that weird middle-of-the-night way where everything feels conspiratorial and important, like the world had paused specifically to witness two girls in matching hoodies seeking emotional support in the form of Flamin' Hot Cheetos.

The bodega guy didn't even look up from his phone. Probably used to zombie teens making questionable life choices at 4 AM.

They sat on the swings, Cheetos dust on their fingers, breath clouding in the cold.

"Leo texted," Maya admitted finally. "I didn't open it."

"Zombie move," Sofia said. ""I can't deal" move. Classic."

"I feel like Cornelius. Just swimming in circles, forgetting everything, living my best oblivious life."

"Your goldfish has a better romantic resume than you do."

"Rude."

"True though." Sofia kicked at the woodchips. "Open it."

"What if he says—"

"What if he doesn't?" Sofia countered. "You're already zombie-walking through AP Euro. Might as well have closure or whatever."

Her phone lit up the swing set. One new message:

"miss you. come over?"

Sofia leaned over. "Well, damn. Zombie rising from the dead?"

Maya's chest did that stupid flutter thing. The goldfish could keep his three seconds. She'd take the messy, complicated, absolutely terrible timeline that came with being sixteen, terrified, and maybe, just maybe, not completely unloved.

"Maybe," she said, pocketing the phone. "But first, we finish these Cheetos."

Cornelius would be proud.