Three Second Memory

Maya stared at her reflection, finger-combing her newly purple hair. The box dye had turned out more grape-soda than galaxy-mystic, but whatever. It was hers.

"You look like a zombie," her brother Jamal muttered from the couch, not looking up from his phone. "You've been in there an hour."

"That's because perfection takes time, Jamal."

She grabbed her backpack, checking the pocket. There it was—the vitamin gummy her mom insisted she take every morning. As if one chewy bear could fix sophomore year. She pocketed it anyway, though she'd probably forget by lunch.

The bus ride was the usual symphony of too-loud music and whispered drama. Maya slid into her seat behind Chloe, who was explaining something with frantic hand gestures.

"...so then Tyler said I was 'clingy,' but like, his attention span is literally a goldfish? Three seconds and he's on to the next girl."

Maya's chest tightened. She knew Tyler. Everyone knew Tyler. The guy who made you feel like the most interesting person in the world until—wait. You were already old news.

She'd spent the last two weeks replaying their coffee shop encounter. He'd leaned in close, said her laugh was his favorite sound, then ghosted so hard she wondered if he'd been eaten by actual zombies.

"You okay?" Chloe asked, turning around.

"Fine." Maya forced a smile. "Just tired."

The day blurred through classes, hallways, and the particular exhaustion of performing okay-ness. When she finally got home, she found her little sister crouched in front of the fish bowl in the living room.

"He's not moving," Lila whispered.

Maya peeked inside. Finbar the goldfish floated sideways, tiny gills barely moving.

"Maybe he's just vibing?"

"He's been vibing for three days, Maya."

Her mom appeared with that expression—half apology, half grown-up practicality. "Sometimes fish just... go. It's not anyone's fault."

But Maya thought about Finbar, doing his little laps, forgetting everything every three seconds. No drama, no overthinking, no replaying conversations at 2 AM. Just swim, forget, swim again.

"Can I have a funeral?" Lila asked.

"Of course."

That evening, they buried Finbar in the backyard under a marigold Lila picked. Maya's purple hair caught the sunset light, and for the first time all day, she felt something loosen in her chest.

She took the vitamin gummy from her pocket. Its cheerful orange shape seemed stupid now.

"What's that?" Lila asked.

"Nothing." Maya tossed it into the trash can by the back door.

Her phone buzzed. Tyler. "Hey, sorry I've been distant. Want to hang out later?"

She stared at the screen, at his name, at the memory of how he'd made her feel special until suddenly he hadn't.

She thought about Finbar, floating in his bowl, just swimming forward without dragging everything behind.

Maya pressed delete, then blocked. Her hair might be grape-soda purple, but she was done being anyone's goldfish.