When you turn up one October morning, I hardly recognise you. Stubble blond hair, Medusa full-sleeve tattoo, paint-splashed overalls. You help me organise my room, we move furniture around, put fresh linen on my bed, arrange my novels by author: Black, Clare, Flanagan, Le Guin, Marillier, Pratchett, Tolkien. We water my collection of monstera’s and philodendrons. I tell you that indoor plants purify the air, that the rest of the house is toxic. You brush the knots out of my hair and ask me how I’ve been doing since Mya died. You said mum messaged you; that she’s worried about me, and it’s the first time you’ve heard from her in over a year. I tell you I miss Mya’s soft black coat, the language of her tail, her dreaming noises, her warmth beside me.

I open my wardrobe, show you the hallowed nook. I light sandalwood incense and the candles placed either side of her framed photo and the small bowl of treats. I move like a priest. We watch the smoke from the incense curl towards the open window and I tell you that it’s comforting to talk to her, that eventually she’ll become an ancestor, that’s what Buddhists believe. I ring the little brass bell to show you how I summon her.

We listen to Billie E and Johnny C and all the others we love. You hum the opening of Video Games, and we both sing, and the light spills through the window and we dance for a bit, fall onto my bed, you take my hand. You tell me about city life and art school, how it took a while, but finally you feel like you fit in, that you love painting, and that one day you want to have an exhibition. You tell me there was a baby, but it didn’t stick, that you’re relieved and you’re not into boys right now, you’ve got a girlfriend. You show me a photo of one of your paintings on your phone — of me. I tell you mum’s at work.

I know, you say.

So, what’s been happening?

Not much, I say, hoping you don’t see my fingernails, chewed to the flesh.

My heart’s thrumming when I tell you about the buzzing at night, and how I try to count the sprites, but there are too many. I tell you that they fly into my ears, down into my eardrums where they bore tunnels to my brain. I tell you that they somersault and bite, and that the smallest bone in our body is the stapes bone in our ears, it looks like a tiny white tuning fork. I tell you that my head vibrates like a tuning fork a lot of the time. You cock your head like Mya used to when she sniffed the words walk and beach.

Are you getting enough sleep? You ask.

Mostly, I say.

Are you still taking your meds?

Yeah, I lie.

I can’t stay much longer, you say.

I know.

I can taste the quiet. Your hair smells like green apples. I pull loose threads from my pink candlewick bedspread, the one that was yours, before you took off that day. I whisper, can you take me with you? But I know the answer. You squeeze my hand, run your fingers through my hair. I’m wearing denim shorts that are riding up and you eye the bandage wrapped around my thigh, press your fingers to it as if it’s an exquisite painting in an art gallery you know you shouldn’t touch.

I want to tell you what mum said after she drunk too much rosé, but I don’t tell you any of it.

After we spend the day together, you pick up your satchel, take out a small gift wrapped in yellow tissue, tell me to open it once you’ve gone. I try to smile but my bones are brittle. When you showed me the painting, I couldn’t speak. My face rendered, strong like yours, Mya by my side.

When you leave that October morning, I watch your car disappear, and I wonder if you’ve really been here. I open your gift, feel the cool smooth weight of the jade dog in my hand, and I wish I could wind the clock back to this morning when I heard your car pull up, when I spotted you through the curtains, when I tapped like a small bird snatching insects against my windowpane.