James was having the worst couple of days of his life—and not in a dramatic, cry-for-attention sort of way. In a genuine, soul-grinding, everything-you-touch-turns-to-garbage way.

It started with the hangover. Not the kind you shake off with a greasy breakfast and a Berocca, but the kind that clings to your skull like a wet sock, pulsing with regret and cheap whiskey. two days on, and it still hadn't buggered off.

Then there was Lily. The one bright, steady thing in his life. His best friend, the woman he wanted to marry—if he could ever get the guts to ask her properly, not blurt it out half-pissed after a fight with her weird cousin. And now she wasn't answering his calls. Not texts, not DMs, not even those voicemails where he tried sounding casual but always ended up rambling like a broken podcast host.

Worst of all, when he finally got home—after two missed shifts and one very awkward conversation with his boss—he opened the door to find his prized Meteor Goldfish floating belly-up in their massive custom tank.

Eight of them.

Each one worth eight hundred bucks.

Gone.

Their tailless, expensive bodies bobbed at the surface, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. James stood there for a full minute, just staring back at them, a sick pit forming in his stomach.

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He'd left the kid next door twenty bucks and a note: "Feed them once a day, pinch of pellets, no more than that." Easy, right?

Apparently not.

After marching next door and banging on the door harder than necessary, James got an earful from the kid's cranky old man instead.

"You didn't leave a key, mate," the father said, arms crossed over a gut shaped like a keg. "Kid's been crying for two days 'cause he couldn't get in. Thought he'd stuffed up. I told him it wasn't his fault, but you better bloody believe you owe him an apology."

James stood in the driveway, dumbfounded. The key. Of course. He'd forgotten to leave the damn key.

And now it was all his fault.

He gave the father an awkward nod and promised he'd make it right. Maybe take the kid out for pizza or get him something cool. Hell, the poor little bloke didn't deserve to feel bad for James' own idiocy.

Back inside, the tank bubbled quietly, its filter pointlessly circulating the now-lethal water. James sat down on the floor beside it, elbows on knees, staring at the casualties of his neglect.

The whole thing felt like some twisted metaphor. Everything good he tried to take care of—he lost. The fish. His job. Lily.

Especially Lily.

She would've sorted everything out. Would've remembered the key. Would've double-checked with the kid's mum. Would've picked up the phone and made everyone feel better in three sentences or less.

But she wasn't here.

And worse, she'd blocked him. Not just ignoring him—blocked. No profile picture. No status updates. Every call going straight to voicemail. It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant.

James ran a hand through his hair and let his head fall back against the cabinet.

"If I could just get her back to Perth," he muttered to the ceiling, "away from her crazy family... things would go back to normal."

He looked over at the dead goldfish again, floating in their silent, chlorinated grave.

Normal was slipping further and further away.

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