Chapter 14: The Talking Goldfish

It started on a Tuesday. A completely unremarkable Tuesday, in fact. There was no storm, no comet streaking through the sky, no ancient curse uttered by a mysterious figure in a dark alleyway. Just a regular, boring Tuesday.

Sam sat at his desk, staring at the bowl of his pet goldfish, Mr. Bubbles. The fish, plump and golden with big, bulging eyes, wiggled its tiny fins and bobbed near the surface expectantly. Sam sighed.

"I should probably clean your tank," he muttered.

"Yeah, you probably should," said Mr. Bubbles.

Sam blinked. Then he blinked again. He swiveled his chair around, half-expecting to find a prankster hiding in the corner of his small apartment. But he was alone. He turned back to Mr. Bubbles.

"You—you just spoke."

"Yeah, and you should really get more plants in here. It's looking a little bare. Kinda depressing, honestly."

Sam nearly fell out of his chair. "Okay, what the hell is happening?"

"You really don't have to yell," Mr. Bubbles said, flicking his tail. "I've been talking this whole time. You're just now noticing?"

"No! Fish don't talk!"

Mr. Bubbles gave a tiny shrug—an impressive feat for a creature with no shoulders. "And yet, here we are."

Sam pressed his fingers against his temples. "I've finally lost it. I'm hallucinating. This is what stress does to a person. I need to sleep more."

"That's actually a great idea," Mr. Bubbles said. "Or, and hear me out, you could quit your job and become a professional street magician. Less stress. More flair."

Sam frowned. "I don't know any magic tricks."

"So learn some! People love a guy who can pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or a fish out of a tank."

"That's not how—look, why are you giving me career advice?"

"I'm an excellent life coach," Mr. Bubbles said smugly. "I see things from a unique perspective. You have no idea how much wisdom you accumulate swimming in circles all day."

Sam stared at him. "This is ridiculous. I am not quitting my job."

"Fine, fine. Be miserable. But if you ever change your mind, I hear Las Vegas is nice this time of year."

Sam rubbed his face. "Okay. Okay. Maybe I just need coffee. Or therapy. Or both."

"Ooo, get both! But also, while you're at it, you should call that girl you went on a date with last week. The one who ghosted you."

Sam groaned. "That's a terrible idea."

"No, no, hear me out," Mr. Bubbles insisted. "You call her and say, 'Hey, I know you didn't call me back, but I have a talking goldfish now. Wanna grab dinner and discuss the implications of this miraculous phenomenon?'"

"I'm not doing that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me sound insane."

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were into honesty. My mistake."

Sam shook his head, determined to ignore the increasingly unhinged suggestions of his new aquatic life coach. But as the days passed, Mr. Bubbles only got more insistent.

"You should invest in cryptocurrency," he suggested one morning as Sam brushed his teeth.

"No."

"Sell all your furniture and replace it with bean bags."

"Absolutely not."

"Dye your hair electric blue."

"Why would I do that?"

"It'll make you look cool."

"I don't need to look cool!"

"Debatable."

By Friday, Sam had had enough. "Okay, listen. Let's establish some ground rules."

"Rules are for people who don't live life to the fullest," Mr. Bubbles said.

"Rule number one: Stop giving me bad advice."

Mr. Bubbles blew a stream of bubbles. "Fine. What if I promise to give you good advice?"

"You just suggested I bet all my savings on a horse named 'Unreliable Larry.'"

"He has potential!"

Sam groaned. "I don't know why I'm even having this conversation."

"Because I'm fascinating."

"Because I'm losing my mind."

Mr. Bubbles tilted his head. "You know, talking fish aside, you really should shake things up a bit. Your life's kinda…boring."

Sam sighed. "I like stability."

"Stability is just another word for 'never taking risks.' C'mon. Do something wild."

Sam hesitated. As insane as this all was, there was a small, nagging part of him that wondered—what if Mr. Bubbles was right?

"Fine," Sam said, grabbing his phone. "One wild thing. I'll text that girl from last week. If she doesn't respond, you never get to give me advice again."

"Deal," said Mr. Bubbles, grinning—or at least, doing whatever the fish equivalent of grinning was.

Sam took a deep breath and typed out a message: Hey, I know this is random, but I have a talking goldfish now. If you ever want to meet him, let me know.

He hit send and braced for impact.

Three minutes later, his phone buzzed.

That's the weirdest excuse I've ever heard for a second date. I'm intrigued.

Sam gawked. "She actually responded."

"Of course she did," Mr. Bubbles said smugly. "I give great advice."

Sam stared at his fish. Maybe—just maybe—his life was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

And so, over the next few weeks, Sam started to take more of Mr. Bubbles' advice—somewhat cautiously. He bought a few plants, not just for the tank but for the apartment. He even tried learning a magic trick, just for fun.

The date went surprisingly well. Not because of Mr. Bubbles, but because Sam found himself feeling more confident, more relaxed. Of course, Mr. Bubbles took full credit for it.

"Told you I was a great life coach," the goldfish said smugly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You also told me to join an underground fight club."

"Still a solid option."

And then, one fateful day, things escalated. Mr. Bubbles suggested a trip to Vegas. "You should go, Sam. See the world, bet big, live life!"

"That's ridiculous. I can't just leave everything."

"Why not? You're young, free, and have a talking goldfish. The possibilities are endless!"

One thing led to another, and before Sam knew it, he was boarding a flight, Mr. Bubbles secured in a portable fishbowl. He didn't know what the future held, but he was certain of one thing—his life would never be boring again.