Death is a part of the hobby.
My brother saw the knob on top of my tank heater and decided to mess around with it. He twisted the thermostat up to 90 degrees. I came home to check on the tank, and when I dipped a finger in it felt like bathwater. My gourami, unnamed, could only swim in fits. He sank like a leaf to rest on the rock between spurts of activity. His gills hyperventilated. He seemed miserable.
I never found the body. Either my merciful family decided to discard it while I was not home, or the fish jumped shift. If the latter case is true, perhaps his body slipped into a crack between the floor and wall. The phantom scent of bad fish wafts into my nose sometimes when I pass the tank, and I do not know if I am imagining the smell or not. Either way, my fish is gone.
My fears ultimately came true. I am not ready to keep a fish, emotionally or physically. I will stick to my snails and shrimp.
RIP. He was a good fish.