Nobody knew he had a glass eye, but when we were alone he’d pop it in and out, like a cuckoo clock, as a sort of intimate party trick. I was surprised by how real it looked, how it followed you around the room, interrupted only by blinks. I always wanted to touch it, but he never let me. He stopped talking to me because of that. But I didn’t mind it. What put me off him was his hangnails, flicking out of his fingers. Pulling them out with his teeth, never bothered by the blood.


When I listen to his music, I imagine an empty swimming pool and a pink diving board with yellow polka dots that look a bit like patches of vomit. I see an orchestra playing his songs in the space where water should rest. Chlorine smell gone, I climb the ladder and prepare to dive. At the very least I’ll break my neck, but something about his music makes me want to hit the bottom.



Kayleigh Jayshree (she/they) finds comfort in memories, even as they twist and change. She is based in the North of England. Her work is published by Lunate Fiction and The Hearth Magazine, and she is forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch and Fruit Journal. She often writes about her mixed heritage and bipolar disorder.