Three-Second Memory

The goldfish bowl sat between us like a glass wall, its solitary inhabitant—Orange Crush—darting around plastic neon plants. I hadn't been in Maya's room since middle school, back when we spent Friday nights painting each other's nails and dissecting crushes like they were biology specimens.

Now we were juniors, and Maya had transformed. Or maybe I had. Either way, the air felt thick with things we weren't saying.

"So," she said, arranging her wellness supplements on the desk like they were artifacts from a religion I hadn't joined. "My mom says I'm vitamin D deficient. That's why I've been, like, super tired."

I nodded, examining my cuticles. "Rough."

"You should try these," she continued, sliding a bottle toward me. "They're supposed to help with focus. God knows I need it for AP Chem."

The irony hit me. Maya, who used to bunk gym class to smoke behind the bleachers, was now mainlining vitamins and lecturing me about wellness. Meanwhile, I was still skipping breakfast and surviving on iced coffee and spite.

"What about Orange Crush?" I asked, gesturing to the fish bowl. "Does he need vitamins?"

She laughed, and for a second, the old Maya flickered through—the one who'd once convinced me that goldfish had three-second memories and therefore couldn't be depressed. "He's fine. He's just vibing."

Vibing. Something about the word felt wrong, like she'd learned it from a podcast instead of lived experience.

"Hey," I said, testing the waters. "Remember when we tried to teach your goldfish algebra? Because we heard fish could recognize patterns?"

"Oh my god, yes!" Her face lit up. "What were we, twelve? We literally spent all summer drawing equations on the tank with dry-erase markers."

"Your mom was so pissed."

"She thought we'd traumatized them. Meanwhile, they were just like, 'Bloop bloop, what's math?'

We laughed, and the glass wall between us cracked. Maybe the thing about goldfish having three-second memories wasn't true for them, but it was definitely true for us. We kept forgetting how to be friends, then remembering, then forgetting again.

"So," I said, picking up the vitamin bottle and pretending to read the label. "Think these'll help me pass my history test tomorrow?"

"Definitely not," she grinned. "But they might help you stay awake long enough to actually study."

"Fair. Want to come over? We can fail together."

"Yes," she said. "And bring Orange Crush. He's my emotional support fish now."

Some things change. Some things, like friendship, just need a little reminder to swim back to the surface.