Three-Second Friend

The goldfish bowl sat between us like a glass wall. Real Jordan stared at his iPhone, thumbs flying across the screen while Goldfish Jordan floated to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent judgment.

"Did you see what Jake posted?" Real Jordan asked, not looking up.

"No," I said, watching Goldfish Jordan do a lazy lap. "I've been busy. With, you know. Life."

He snorted. "Life? We're fifteen, Leo. What life?"

I'd won the fish at the carnival two weeks ago—the night Jordan spent the entire time filming his Instagram story instead of actually, like, being there. Named him Jordan as a joke, but somewhere along the way, Fish Jordan became the better friend. He listened. Never interrupted. Didn't make me feel boring for preferring reality over a carefully curated feed.

"Whatever," Real Jordan said, finally glancing up. "What's with the fish anyway? It's just... swimming."

"That's literally what fish do."

"Yeah but it's—" He waved his phone. "It's not content, you know?"

That word. Content. Everything was content now. Our friendship, apparently, wasn't performing well enough.

The next morning, Goldfish Jordan was floating at the top, motionless.

I buried him in the backyard under the oak tree where we used to build forts before Jordan discovered followers mattered more than friendship. I sat there for an hour, dirt under my nails, thinking about how they say goldfish have three-second memories. Maybe that was a blessing. Fish Jordan would never remember how things used to be.

Real Jordan texted me that afternoon: u coming to jakes party?

I stared at my phone, at his username, at the memories we were making that weren't worth keeping.

No, I typed back. I've got plans.

It wasn't a lie. Some friendships are like goldfish—beautiful while they last, but you can't keep them alive in a bowl that's too small for both of you.