Zombie Mode And Goldfish Memory

The problem wasn't that I was dead inside. The problem was that everyone else seemed so alive.

I sat in the back of Mr. Harrison's AP Bio classroom, operating on what my friends called "zombie mode" — that specific state of existence where you're physically present but mentally roaming the apocalypse of your own exhaustion. Three hours of sleep. Two energy drinks. One existential crisis before first period.

"So," Mr. Harrison announced, "today we begin our unit on animal cognition."

I zoned out until he placed a small fishbowl on my desk. Inside swam the most depressed-looking orange goldfish I'd ever seen.

"Everyone gets a study buddy," Harrison said. "Observe. Document. Learn something about memory."

My lab partner, Jordan, slid into the seat beside me. Jordan, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since September, who ran track and varsity cross country and somehow still had perfect skin despite all the sweating. Jordan, who was currently leaning way too close to examine my fish.

"That's a tragic little guy," Jordan said.

"His name is Bartholomew," I invented. "And he's not tragic. He's... contemplative."

Jordan laughed. Actual laugh. Not the polite one they gave teachers.

"You know what they say about goldfish memory?" Jordan asked. "Seven seconds, max. Imagine that. Just swimming around, being surprised by the same plastic castle every time."

"Honestly? Sounds freeing," I said. "No overthinking. No replaying conversations at 3 AM. Just existing."

Jordan looked at me differently then. Really looked.

"What are you running from?" The question came out of nowhere.

"What?"

"You're always running," Jordan said, voice quiet. "Running between classes. Running from conversations. Running yourself into the ground with AP classes and volunteering and whatever else you do. I see you in the hallways, Maya. You don't stop."

The truth hit me like it had been waiting in my throat for months: "I'm scared if I stop, I'll realize I don't know who I am without all the motion."

Jordan's fingers brushed against mine near the fishbowl. Small, accidental, electric.

"Maybe that's okay," Jordan said. "Maybe you're supposed to figure that out. Maybe we all are."

Bartholomew swam to the front of his bowl, opened his tiny mouth, and blew a bubble.

For the first time in months, I wasn't in zombie mode. I was just there, heart racing like I'd been running toward something instead of away from everything.

"You know," I said, "I think Bartholomew has better taste than either of us gave him credit for."

Jordan smiled, and it wasn't the polite smile anymore. "Yeah. Maybe he does."