Three Minutes at the Surface

The goldfish bowl sat on my nightstand, its orange inhabitant staring at me with what I swear was judgment. Freddie had outlived three iPhones and my will to live through sophomore year.

"You're up in twenty," my mom yelled through my bedroom door. "Wellness smoothie time!"

Gross. Spinach. Again. She'd gone full TikTok wellness influencer since the divorce, which meant I was now subjected to green sludge that tasted like lawn clippings mixed with regret.

I grabbed my phone—iPhone 15, courtesy of Dad's guilt—and started scrolling. 2:47 AM. Again. My thumb moved on autopilot, zombie-like, through an endless feed of people whose lives were objectively better than mine.

Zombie scrolling. That's what my therapist called it. "Your brain's hungry for dopamine hits," she'd said, "so you keep consuming without even tasting it."

Weird metaphor, but she wasn't wrong. I felt like one of those undead extras in makeup, my face illuminated by the blue light as I watched: Maya at the beach (not invited), Connor's new relationship (cute couple, definitely not jealous), Jordan's track meet victory (not that I care about track, obviously).

Track.

I'd promised myself I'd start running. Fresh start, new me, all that inspirational poster crap. But somehow weeks had passed and my running shoes were still pristine in the closet, gathering judgment alongside Freddie.

Tonight felt different though. Maybe it was the spinach smoothie finally kicking in. Maybe it was seeing Freddie float at the surface, doing absolutely nothing but existing, and getting credit for it.

I put down my phone.

The room went dark. Quiet. For a minute, I just sat there, my thumb twitching like a phantom limb. Then I laced up my running shoes and slipped out the window.

The air hit me—actual air, not recycled AC. My sneakers hit the pavement. One foot, then the other. I ran until my lungs burned, until the ghostly blue light of my screen couldn't touch me anymore.

The world got quiet. No notifications, no fake lives, no pressure to perform. Just me, the road, and the knowledge that some things—running, breathing, being alive—can't be captured in a scrollable feed.

Back in my room, Freddie was still floating at the surface. I tapped the glass.

"Three minutes," I whispered. "That's a goldfish's memory span, right?"

He just bubbled at me.

I set my phone to Do Not Disturb. Tomorrow I'd probably check it again, probably scroll, probably feel like crap for an hour or three. But for tonight? I was done being a zombie.

The spinach smoothie on my nightstand had separated into an unappetizing green sludge. I drank it anyway. Tasted like change. Tasted like starting over.