What We Keep in the Dark

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill where Marcus left it, three days gone and the water already clouding. I watched the orange fish dart between the plastic castle and the overgrown fern, unaware it was abandoned. Like me.

Barnaby—Marcus's cat, now mine by default—jumped onto the counter and stared at the bowl with predatory focus. His tail twitched. I shooed him away, again. Marcus had sworn the cat wouldn't eat the fish. Another promise I'd believed.

Outside, summer lightning flickered across the sky, silent and distant. The weatherman said storms were coming. Everything felt like it was coming apart at once.

"You'll forget about me faster than that fish forgets its own existence," Marcus had said, packing his books into boxes. "Goldfish memory, remember? Three seconds and it's all new."

He'd meant it as a joke about forgiveness, about moving on. I'd nodded, swallowed the tightness in my throat, kept boxing his things.

Now I stood in the kitchen we'd painted together (sage green, his choice, my labor), watching Barnaby crouch again near the bowl. The fish swam obliviously. Lightning cracked closer this time, thunder shaking the windows.

The truth was, I didn't want to forget. The three-second memory span was a myth—goldfish could remember for months. I'd looked it up once, while Marcus slept beside me. Some things stuck.

Barnaby's paw touched the glass. The fish scattered. I scooped up the cat, carried him to the living room, set him down on Marcus's empty side of the couch. He purred, kneaded the cushion, settled in.

I returned to the kitchen, fed the fish, watched the storm break against the glass. Some things you keep. Some things you let swim in circles, waiting for the moment they remember they were once free.