Zombie Goldfish Summer

The summer before sophomore year, I became a zombie. Not the brain-eating kind—though my little sister Mia would disagree after I spent three weeks doom-scrolling through everyone else's perfect lives while mine felt like a buffering video.

My transformation started with the orange hair. Mom called it a cry for help; I called it self-expression. The box dye was supposed to give me golden highlights, but my chemistry skills matched my grades, so I ended up looking like a traffic cone. Obviously, I had to wear hoodies until the shade faded, which in July meant sweating through third period while pretending everything was fine.

Then there was Barnaby, my goldfish. He was supposed to teach me responsibility, but mostly he taught me that staring at a fish swimming in circles is weirdly comforting when your friends are all at camp or hanging out without you. I'd feed him those tiny flakes and imagine him thinking, 'At least someone notices me exists.' Pathetic? Maybe. But Barnaby didn't care about my orange hair disaster or that I wasn't invited to Taylor's pool party.

The zombie part happened gradually. First, I stopped posting because who wanted to see another failed aesthetic attempt? Then I stopped replying to texts because what was I supposed to say—'Sorry, busy watching my fish achieve more goals than me'? Finally, I stopped leaving my room except for school and bathroom breaks. Mom tried to talk about it, but I'd just zone out, staring at my phone like it held the secrets of the universe. Which it didn't. Just highlight reels of everyone living their best lives while I collected fish tank water samples.

The breaking point came when I caught Mia talking to Barnaby. 'My sister's basically a zombie,' she told him, 'but at least you're thriving.' Something about hearing my worst fears voiced by my nine-year-old sister to a fish finally shook me awake.

The next day, I washed out the orange dye (now a weird peach color), texted my friend Sofia to hang, and even joined the robotics club. Barnaby seemed proud of me—or maybe he was just hungry. Either way, I stopped being a zombie and started being just regular messed-up me, which honestly felt like progress.