I've only gone fishing once. It was a balmy summer day and I'd just bought a new picnic blanket. The cashier who checked me out at the store had looked at me like she knew I wasn't going to be having a picnic with anyone. Yeah, rub it in, I thought. Then I felt bad for thinking something mean like that.

There was a park nearby with a little dock on a small lake. It was a nice place to fish, I'd heard (I don't leave the house much myself, haha). I spread out my new blanket and fumbled around in my little bag for the mediocre lunch I'd managed to scrape together that morning, and my lures and bait. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but eventually I was fishing.

I didn't have much luck at first. I was there for hours, and nothing was biting. Not even biting! No fish would even spare me a glimmer of hope. So I just sat there and watched the clouds for a while. Maybe it was hours. I've always been good at wasting time.

Well, after a while, I pulled up a huge carp. I was pretty surprised. After I reeled it in, I just stood there, holding it in my hands, looking at it. And it was looking back at me.

Everything there was to me was reflected right back in those huge, glossy eyes. How I hate my voice and wait too long and love too hard. Every missed opportunity, all of my fears and insecurities, all of the things I always knew would happen.

I couldn't stand to look at it any longer. I threw it back in the water and went home.

I cried later that night for the first time in... well, it had been quite a while, I remember.