When the Fish Spoke

I hadn’t touched the toy for months.

It still sat quietly and and gazing at the edge of the bathroom shelf —
the little rubber fish with a tiny hole near its mouth.
Once soft, full of joy, brimming with life.
Now dry. Still. Slightly stiff with time.

Today, without thinking, I picked it up.
Gave it a gentle squeeze. No water. Just air.

In that silence, something strange happened.
“Will she come again?”
It wasn’t the fish that spoke. But the voice echoed clearly… inside me.

The fish spoke — or perhaps, a feeling inside me found its voice.

“No…” I whispered.
“She used to come every day,” said the fish.
“Yes… we’d fill a bucket with water, sit on the floor, and play like time didn’t exist,” I said.
“When I splashed water on her face, she used to laugh,” said the fish.

I smiled. That laugh…
It didn’t echo in the room anymore —
but inside me, it burst open a fountain of memories.

Now, it’s not water the fish lacks…
“Why doesn’t she come anymore?” asked the fish.

I stood there, holding it.
I could have blamed time, circumstances, life.
But the truth was more complicated — and more silent.

“She’s growing up now. And… life is different. I don’t get to see her the way I used to,” I said.
“But I was once a part of her cute tiny world,” the fish said.
“You were. You were joy. You were a little bundle of water and wonder,” I said.

The fish suddenly felt heavy.
Or maybe I felt small —
like I had shrunk into the forgotten corners of the shelf.

I dipped the fish into a bowl of water.
Not to clean it —
but so it could feel remembered, connected, alive for just a moment.

“Do you miss her?” the fish asked.

I didn’t want to answer.
Some truths sit too close to the soul.
But inside, something resonated: Words fall short.

I sat with the fish for a while.
No splash. No laughter. Just silence.

That’s when I realized —
we don’t truly lose everything we lose.
Some things… stay in the heart.
Waiting. Not for the world to change —
but for us to.

We don’t always lose people but the joy.
Because joy… it shifts, it changes shape, and the heart doesn’t always know how to hold it.

As I got up to leave, a tiny droplet spilled from the fish’s mouth —
soft, slow, like a breath reminding itself it once lived.

“I feel like… she misses us too.”

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t need to as I felt she is happy where ever.

I smiled.
And in that small, fleeting smile —
a fountain rose again.