Three Second Memory

Maya's iPhone showed 11:47 PM as she sat on the edge of the bathtub, her charging cable frayed at the edges like her patience. Three weeks until freshman year, and she still couldn't decide whether to text him back.

Her mom had insisted she take that vitamin D supplement earlier, saying something about mood and seasonal affective disorder, whatever that meant. Maya rolled her eyes at the memory, then immediately regretted it. Her mom meant well.

The carnival prize—a goldfish in a plastic bag—swam lazily in its bowl on the counter. She'd won it two nights ago when Jake from her middle school had challenged her to that ring toss game. They'd spent the whole evening talking, and at the end, he'd helped her carry the fish home. He'd held the bag while she unlocked her door, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her.

He didn't.

Now her phone buzzed. Jake. Her palm went sweaty against the screen as she swiped up.

'fish still alive?'

Maya stared at the goldfish. Its name was Captain Barnacles, thanks to Jake's suggestion. She'd already looked up goldfish care three times today. They were supposed to have three-second memories, but this one seemed to watch her with ancient wisdom.

'three days strong,' she typed back, adding a fish emoji before hitting send.

Her phone died at 12%.

'figures,' she muttered, grabbing her broken cable. She'd meant to buy a new one, but she'd been too busy overthinking everything.

The goldfish swam to the front of its bowl and stared at her. And in that moment, Maya realized she'd been acting like everyone said goldfish did—forgetting what mattered every three seconds. Jake liked her. He'd walked her home. He'd named her fish. He was texting her at midnight.

She grabbed the spare cable from her junk drawer and plugged in her phone. When it turned back on, Jake had sent another message.

'want to come over tomorrow? we can build captain barnacles a castle'

Maya smiled so wide her face hurt. The goldfish did a happy little flip. Sometimes, three-second memory wasn't a curse—it was just long enough to remember what actually mattered.