To this day I hate myself for not noticing the signs before it was too late. I could’ve stopped it. I know I could have. But what’s in the past cannot be changed. It can only be forgotten.

I dragged my index finger across the surface of the glass. My little blue fish, Coral, jerked his head and immediately swam around, following my finger - up, down, left, right, and in circles. I giggled, watching him swim around playfully. He looked at me. I looked at him. I could see laughter in his eyes. Thank you, he said.

The next day. I opened the lid of the glass tank and carefully placed a rock with a tunnel, along with a green plant, in my fish’s world. He cowered in the corner of the tank. I put my finger on the glass right by his face. His eyes spoke fear and terror. I smiled comfortingly, and slowly dragged my finger towards the new items I had added to the tank. He paused, looking hesitantly into my eyes. Go on, I whispered. Slowly he swam towards the rock, and soon enough, he was rushing in and out of the tunnel and dashing through the leaves of the green plant. I made eye contact with him. Thank you, he said.

The following day. I opened the lid of the tank once again, and out of my hand fell four crumbs. My fish darted immediately towards the crumbs and swallowed them one by one. He looked at me, smiling. Thank you, he said.

A few weeks passed. Then months. Then years.

I opened the fish tank and dropped in four crumbs. Nothing happened. I’m surprised at first, but I wait. And wait. And wait. I wonder what’s wrong. I look at my fish, hiding inside the tunnel of the rock, his new favorite spot. Come out, I say. Come eat your food. Still nothing. I look into his eyes. I’m shocked to see pain and sorrow in them. What’s wrong, I ask. He continues to stare at me. Those eyes don’t tell me anything. I look at him with pity and concern, and eventually walk away, turning around once more to take a final glance at him.

It’s the next day. I walk up to the tank, bracing myself for what I might see. To my absolute horror, my fish is lying upside down, floating in the water. Coral, I whisper, tapping lightly on the glass. Nothing. Coral, I say more loudly, tapping harder. Coral, please, I sob. No Coral, please don’t go! No no no please no! Don’t go! Don’t go! I wail. I subconsciously and instinctively drag my index finger across the glass. I watch hopefully, but all that remains is a smudge. I close my eyes and lean against the tank. My body shakes uncontrollably, and the water slushes around inside. I cry and cry and cry until no tears are left. I love you so much Coral, I whisper, and kiss the glass, my one and only form of connection to him.