In my opinion, we were perfect. We had everything we needed; just us in our fishbowl. Sure, we had the same problems that everyone has. Sometimes we couldn't eat all the food that they gave us. Sometimes kids would tap on the glass and poke at the water. But we-- we were perfect.
We were happy.
Then, you left me. You jumped out of the water. I was alone in the bowl and you had joined a school of fish I couldn't understand. I stewed in my own feces for a few days, swimming in circles and listening as the tapping on the glass grew louder and the water became cloudy and cold.
I remembered what they had said to me about there being so many more fish in the sea and I decided to jump out of the bowl. I don't know what I was expecting to find there; you? Another fish exactly like you? Something completely different? Anything that would make this all go away?
The water was thick and it was hard to swim. The toxins and chemicals had made the seafish mutated and frightening. I didn't like it. I couldn't breathe there. I felt so alone.
So I did the only thing I could do. I came back to the bowl.
But whatever I was looking for wasn't there. Just the same stale water we'd swum through together, the same food pellets we'd shared. The same tapping we'd cursed, the same glass that had kept us in a microcosm of our own, isolated from the rest of the world. Perfect, alone and together.
And they say goldfish can't remember.