Zombie Mode and the Fox's Goldfish

I was basically a zombie by Friday night. Third consecutive all-nighter for finals, and I was running on pure caffeine vibes. Maya's party was supposed to be lit, but I was just drifting through the crowd like a ghost.

Then I saw him. Fox. Everyone called him that—sly smile, mischievous eyes, the kind of guy who could charm his way out of detention. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking unfairly alive while the rest of us were dead on our feet.

"You look like you need saving," Fox said, sliding a cup toward me. His hand brushed mine—electric, everything suddenly sharp and real instead of foggy.

I mumbled something about being a zombie. He laughed, and it was the best sound I'd heard all week.

"My little sister's goldfish died today," he said out of nowhere. "We had a funeral and everything. She named him Captain Fin."

"That's... actually kind of deep?" I said, feeling weirdly touched.

"The theory goes goldfish have three-second memories," Fox continued. "Imagine that. No pain lasts longer than a heartbeat. No embarrassment, no overthinking, no lying awake replaying conversations from three years ago."

"Sounds lonely," I said. "Like, what's the point of living if you can't remember anything?"

Fox looked at me differently then. Really looked at me.

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe it's freedom."

We sat on the back porch steps while the party raged inside, talking about goldfish funerals and the weight of memory. For the first time all week, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. I felt present. I felt seen.

"Hey," Fox said as his ride pulled up. "Maybe next time, you won't need saving."

"Yeah," I called back, grinning like an idiot. "Maybe next time, I'll be the one doing the saving."

I walked home with a fox's smile stuck in my head and a goldfish's wisdom in my heart. Sometimes the best memories are the ones you never see coming.