My fish died.

Yeah, it probably seems pretty small, but I spent a lot of time with Jim in the two years I’d had him. He was a goofy looking betta whose left side with red and right side was orange with a purple line across his side. We’d stay in and chat the days away. Obviously, he’s a fish and couldn’t respond to me, but I still kept going. He made a great listener.

I told him about work, and some of my friends. I told him how I wanted to play violin again, but just couldn’t afford the investment. I’d feed him and watch him enjoy his meal; what a carefree life he lived. Maybe I’d like to be a fish too.

I’d carefully take Jim to sit outside the house, as we watched cars pass by together, I’d check my phone and tell him about funny things I found online. He was there for me, always; a friend, and the perfect confidant. It may seem silly to spill my heart out to a fish, but I like to think Jim picked up some of it. I like to think that he really was there for me, his bowl be damned.

One evening though, he was swimming kinda slowly. I looked at him and figured maybe he’s hungry, so I fed him like usual. He slowly ate away at his food; Jim always was rearing to get it, but this time, a bunch of it hit the floor. Maybe I’d overfed him this time? Oops!

But the next morning I woke up, and I saw him upside down, floating in the water. I saw Jim, but he couldn’t look back. I didn’t really know how to process it; death comes for all, be they fish or man. But I just had to move on with my day despite that. I couldn’t bring myself to move his bowl, so I left it as I went to work.

I tried all day to keep my mind off it. A few times I’d nearly tricked myself into believing that it wasn’t real or I’d just not seen things right. But when I returned home, there was the inevitable truth in front of me. Jim was dead. I told myself that I was sorry, that I should have taken better care of him, and kept his bowl clean. But I didn’t voice my thoughts. Jim deserved better than that. I told him that he was a good fish, and I was glad to have had him. I appreciated him in my life and I was sad that he was gone now.

Jim was gone, and I’d never have him again. I wasn’t sure I’d get a fish again. There’s so much upkeep, and what if I got tired of how the next one looked? Jim was cool, he was easy to care for, and he had a couple of colours that kept him interesting to see. I can’t have any fish other than Jim.

And a few weeks passed. I mourned my fish, really. My friends acted understanding, but I was worried maybe I was making too much of it for them. I had a lot to process. Grief is like that, even for a fish; he was Jim after all.

But I’ve finally started to feel alright. I miss having him, looking back at me as I walk in, taking him outside, telling him everything on my mind. I really miss having my confidant, but I would be okay. He’d rather me be okay, I’m sure.

Maybe I could even find a new fish? No, perish the thought. I loved Jim like family, I could never be so cheap as to replace him, and no other fish could be like him.

I was supposed to pass this pet store, but I found myself curious. I walk in and look around to see a few nice looking bettas, one even reminds me of Jim! She’s solid red, with a couple of blue stripes. She’s looking at me too. Like, right at me.

I don’t want to replace Jim. My love for Jim is unlike the love anyone could have for a fish. But maybe a new betta can help fill the empty space on my dresser at least. Even if she’s not Jim, maybe she can help fill what was left missing.

I think I’m gonna take a betta home today. I think I’d like that. I hope that’s okay.