Three Seconds

Maya's room was the only place where her brain didn't feel like a browser with too many tabs open. Which was ironic, considering the source of her current crisis was literally glowing in her hand.

Her iPhone. Battery at 8%. Notifications piling up like emotional debt.

"He replied," she announced to the room.

Bubbles, her rescue goldfish from the county fair (don't ask, her judgment was impaired that day), swam to the glass with his usual judgment-free energy. He was basically her best friend at this point. He'd never left her on read. He'd never made her feel small for liking "weird" music or wearing mismatched socks.

"Why is replying so hard?" Maya groaned, face-planting onto her duvet.

The message sat there, innocently devastating:

yo that concert was sick wanna hang this weekend

From Liam. The guy she'd been low-key obsessed with since September, when he'd worn a Joy Division shirt and she'd spent forty-five minutes psyching herself up to say "nice shirt" before chickening out entirely.

Now here they were. March. He'd noticed her existence. And her brain had conveniently forgotten how to human.

"You're not helping," she told Bubbles.

Bubbles did a little flip, unbothered.

Maya's fingers hovered over the screen. The wrong response could ruin everything. Too eager = desperate. Too chill = uninterested. This was the exact kind of social calculus that gave her hives.

Her mom's voice drifted from downstairs: "Maya! Didn't you say you had homework?"

"Working on it!"

Technically not a lie. This was homework for life.

Three seconds. That's how long goldfish supposedly remembered things (okay, she'd fact-checked this once, it was a myth, but whatever). Sometimes she wished her brain worked like that. No overthinking. No replaying awkward moments from three years ago at 2 AM. Just pure, unfiltered existence.

Her thumb moved before her anxiety could veto the decision.

yeah absolutely down what'd u have in mind

Sent.

Maya tossed the iPhone onto her bed like it was radioactive. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Bubbles swam in enthusiastic circles, possibly sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

theres this arcade downtown my friend works there fridays we could meet up

Maya pressed her face into her pillow to muffle the sound that definitely came out of her throat. A mix between a scream and a laugh.

"Bubbles," she whispered, "I think I just did a thing."

The goldfish regarded her with ancient wisdom.

Friday couldn't come fast enough.