Fish

I didn’t plan on bringing home another betta.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t, not after Papi.

Papi was fiesta and fire,

all color, attitude, and confidence.

He filled the space with personality,

tiny but impossible to ignore.

When he was gone,

the silence felt too big to fill.

I told myself never again.

And then there was Echo.

His water was cloudy,

his fins dull and tired,

but when I saw him, he looked right at me.

There were others, brighter and flashier,

but I couldn’t walk away from him.

Something about that moment felt familiar,

like being chosen back.

He wasn’t Papi’s flame.

He was the warmth that remained after the fire—

gentle, steady, soft.

Maybe that’s what love does when it returns.

It doesn’t shout this time;

it simply shows up.

Now Echo swims in clear water,

calm and curious,

watching the world the way I watch him.

Papi was fire.

Echo is calm water.

Both found me

when I needed them most.

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