There are hundreds of meters of water above me, pressing down on me, and yet I do not feel their pressure. The calming light, or whatever manages to filter through the depths, reaches my eyes, slipping past my corneas and settling gently on my retinas.

  I am at the bottom of the sea—or maybe an ocean. The waves do not wash over me, and I feel perfectly at peace with my nonexistent buoyancy. I look around and wonder where everyone is. Where everything else is.

  Why is there no other fish around me? It’s too silent…

  But in front of my eyes, she sits—a jellyfish, her tendrils hanging in a sad, pathetic mess, as though she didn’t have time to comb them in the morning. If I had to describe her, I’d say she’s tall. Or maybe long, depending on how you look at her.

  She takes what looks like a cigarette and lights it on fire—underwater, mind you—which only goes to show how powerful she really is. I take out my phone. I need to record her. No one will believe me otherwise.

  “What are you doing?” asks the jellyfish, a hint of confusion in her voice.

  But her confusion is nothing compared to my complete bewilderment. How can a jellyfish talk?

  “I… I’m recording you…”

  “What for?” she asks, letting the smoke escape from her nose, the cigarette resting gently between her fingers.

  “No one would believe me… I have to record it. A smoking jellyfish.”

  “I am a jellyfish now? Wasn’t I a squid just a moment ago?” There’s a hint of exhaustion in her voice, something deeply seeped into her bones.

  “What are you talking about? You are a jellyfish. Clearly…

  “Is that so?”

  “It is so.”

  What a strange situation I find myself in…

  “And you say no one will believe you? Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Who would believe a man saying he saw a jellyfish smoking? I mean, it’s unbelievable. I have to have proof. It’s the only way.”

  “I am a squid,” she says, a smirk on her lips, the cigarette resting between them.

  This jellyfish is out of its goddamn mind.

  “I know my fish! I’ve been a marine biologist all my life. Don’t tell me what’s a jellyfish and what’s a squid.”

  She doesn’t seem surprised when I raise my voice at her. She gives me a patronizing look—the kind you give a kid talking out of his depth. A look of pity. I hate it.

  “So I am a jellyfish?”

  “Of course you are. The gelatinous body, the long tentacles—you are obviously a jellyfish.”

  “I am a jellyfish.”

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  “You are a jellyfish.”

  I feel calmer now, but I still can’t believe my eyes. My ears. A talking jellyfish? A talking jellyfish! It’s… it’s a miracle. It’s something unheard of.

  “Will they really believe you, with that video of yours? What if they say it’s a deepfake?” asks the stupid jellyfish.

  “Of course they will believe me. There is no faking this.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is so.”

  “How is that phone working underwater?”

  “It’s waterproof.” The words leave my mouth naturally, but… is that really the case? Is my phone really waterproof? I’m not sure.

  “You don’t sound too sure of yourself.” The smoke from her cigarette drifts up unceremoniously, carried by the waves.

  “How are you smoking underwater?”

  “Underwater?”

  “Yes, underwater. Of course underwater. How do you do it?”

  She thinks for a second, taking another drag before she responds.

  “This isn’t a cigarette.”

  I didn’t know marine fauna had this much attitude. She really takes me for an idiot, doesn’t she?

  “What is it, then?”

  “A non-cigarette.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “A non-cigarette?”

  “A non-cigarette,” she assures me.

  A non-cigarette.

  What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?

  “Think about it. How could I do this…” she exhales another puff of smoke “…if this were a cigarette? The smoke would make a bubble around itself, wouldn’t it?”

  I mean… yeah, it would. But her smoke dissolves cleanly into the water, a milky transition.

  The whole situation feels surreal. Am I losing my mind?

  The jellyfish crosses her legs, one over the other, as she sits on the bench-shaped rock. Her elbow rests on her knee, chin propped up in her palm, cigarette between her fingers, eyes locked on me—boring into me like sunlight focused through a lens. The ash from the tip of the cigarette drifts away, but she doesn’t seem to mind. All of her attention is on me. It weirds me out.

  “You want to try it?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “You… can’t?”

  “Yes! I’d have to take my scuba gear off to do that.”

  “But, dear… you aren’t wearing any.” She chuckles softly.

  I look down. She’s right. My bare feet touch the ground, sand running between my toes.

  “How… how am I not drowning?”

  “This isn’t water. It’s non-water! That’s why I can smoke my non-cigarette here.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is so.”

  I can’t argue with that logic.

  “So…? Wanna try it?”

  “I don’t really have any reason not to at this point.”

  I’ve never smoked before, but when she reaches out, offering the non-cigarette, my hand moves on its own. I pinch the filter between my fingers and take a long drag. Smoke enters my lungs. I don’t cough. The taste is as natural as the motion of my hand.

  There’s a painful look on the jellyfish’s face. When our eyes meet, she looks away.

  “What are you making that face for?”

  “What face?” she asks, rubbing her cheek with a dry chuckle.

  “You know what I mean…”

  But she doesn’t respond.

  I’ve forgotten my manners, haven’t I? Even if she’s a jellyfish, as long as she can talk and make sense of my words, I should treat her with respect.

  “I forgot to ask… what’s your name?”

  She looks at me like she’s just seen a ghost. Her eyes widen, but her jaw remains fixed. She’s trembling—all over—like I just told her her husband is dead.

  “You… don’t remember?” she finally asks after a long silence.

  “Of course not? You’ve never told me.”

  She looks away, cradling her head in her hands as though she’s about to cry.

  What’s with these reactions? I take it all back. I hate jellyfish.

  “Do you… still love me?”

  “What kind of question is that? I don’t even know you.”

  At my response, the jellyfish slams her head against my chest, silent tears shaking her shoulders.

  “You really don’t remember?”

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to remember, so I don’t answer.

  “Do you… hate me?” she asks, looking up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “No… I love you… I’m sorry.”

  Why did I say that?

  “Halia. My name is Halia.”

  Halia. That’s a nice name.

  She takes my hand and pulls me up.

  “There’s the bus…,” she proclaims, gathering her composure.

  A bus? What’s a bus?