The room feels is full of water; gurgling blue and hissing in parts.

The two of us lie on opposite sides of the room and give out a tight group of bubbles. The window is sealed but the sun rays come in through the cracks and makes bejewelled patterns on the water. The patterns, sea horses and cacti shaped plants, move around without a care.

Our jokes come out less funny and our stories don’t sound as sincere. When we talk, there are no words; just harsh sounds like the bottom a drainpipe. One of us swims across the room and we float next to each other, but in reality we can be only so close in this room.

The next day, the water drains out. I don’t know how, but it’s gone. Our hair is matted and the dancing patterns are now silent. I open my mouth to say something but swallow the sound. You nod; you’ve understood.