ONE The train doors opened and the rush of exiting passengers pushed Mackenzie out. They were deposited into the very intestines of Manchester Piccadilly. Rain, thin and mean, punched the roof in tight, miserable fists. A child—no more than nineteen—in Primark’s answer to Balenciaga fumbled with a tube of mints, sending them avalanching to the floor. The green rounds rolled—one forgotten soldier tumbled onto the tracks. Rest well, sweet prince. A woman in ASOS office wear—near the cheaper end of the on-sale items—clicked her tongue. “Bloody menace,” she muttered, though whether she meant the mints or Mackenzie’s three-day-old, chipped nail polish wasn’t clear. Mackenzie’s backpack—some forgotten relic from a 1980s car boot sale—hung awkwardly off one shoulder. Too lumpy. Too clumsy. Too London. It scraped continuously against a sunburn—a souvenir from a disastrous smoking session on Primrose Hill. London. Primrose Hill. Now Manchester Piccadilly. It had felt like the move to make. Inside the backpack were mountains of clothes that would be ditched as soon as they found their scene. Mackenzie still kept an Oyster card poking out from their front pocket—last used two weeks ago, back when they still believed London loved them. Departure boards flashed overhead. MACHYNLLETH 10:17. CARDIFF CENTRAL 10:24. Trains presumably departed to other places not necessarily in Wales. Every passenger possibly moving on to a different life. Just like Mackenzie. They hoped. The station announcer’s voice crackled overhead—a garbled warning about a delayed service to Sheffield. Mackenzie wondered who had ever been delayed going to Sheffield. They pushed forward into the stream of travellers, letting the flow carry them towards the concourse. This was it. Manchester. The city they'd committed to, sight mostly unseen—apart from one boozy weekend six years ago and the carefully curated Instagram feeds of bars and galleries they’d been stalking for the past month. “We are pleased to offer you a place on our Postgraduate Fine Arts programme,” the email from the university had said. Pleased to take over £9,000 as well, Mackenzie assumed. Still, they’d celebrated with a bottle of cheap prosecco, alone in their bedsit in Brixton. The flat was the size of a sneeze and cost seventy percent of their monthly income from the coffee shop. Moving north wasn’t just about the MA; it was financial survival. A fresh start. A chance to be someone new—or maybe just finally become themselves, minus the weight of old expectations. Outside, taxis and Ubers emitted carbon monoxide in the form of exhausted lullabies. A cabbie was picking at his teeth, unearthing leftover curry. He gave it a thoughtful once-over, reminiscing over a good dinner—or contemplating re-chewing it. A real specimen. A woman who looked like the archetypal Liverpudlian—somehow lost but also in the right place—slapped the hood of his car. “Eight quid to Salford. What do you take me for? Ken Dodd?” The cabbie just grunted, more invested in the cold morsel of leftover curry. Or perhaps it was a samosa. Mackenzie could sympathise. They were a bugger for a triangle treat. Their phone chose that moment to gasp its last. Map directions dissolved mid-route. The screen fractured into a spiderweb of poor decisions—Mum’s last voicemail still marked unheard, Tinder notifications from back when they still believed in bios that said, No Tories. Works in finance. Rain slithered down Mackenzie’s neck. It felt like a baptism. It hit the failure of a tattoo under their ear. No refund. No butterfly. Just the dot. Some things weren’t worth the pain. No refund hurt more than the dot. Someone had tagged STAY WEIRD MCR on a support beam in shaky canary-yellow spray paint. The R from “WEIRD” dripped like melted butter. Somewhere, in the city that needed to be reminded to stay weird, Mackenzie’s new flat awaited. Ancoats. They’d thought it sounded cool until their mum said it sounded like a charity shop for pensioners in vintage cardigans. Mackenzie had imagined it as a mysterious singer instead: “Please welcome to the stage… Ann Coats!” They weren’t so sure now. They couldn’t wait for the shower that would moan in E-flat when you tried to turn the heat up. For eight minutes and thirty-three seconds (they timed it), Mackenzie stood still. A pigeon landed on the departures board inside. It promptly shat on GLASGOW CENTRAL.
TWO
Mackenzie managed to dodge defecating pigeons on the way out. It took longer than expected, but they finally found it. They couldn’t settle on a metaphor, so decided it had taken longer than a long thing. The flat—or more accurately, the studio. As much as things change, they stay the same. The shower didn’t look like it would moan in E-flat. It looked like it would file for early retirement. They couldn’t wait to test it out. To stand under the no-pressure cold water while contemplating: What the fuck have I done? Impact reverberated around the room as the backpack surrendered to gravity. A cork of dust erupted—champagne it was not. Mackenzie waved it away, triggering a sneeze that made the single lightbulb sway. They tried to turn it on. Nothing. An ache in their foot throbbed in Morse code: -... .-.. .- -.-. -.- / .-.. .. --. .... – Strange. They paused. It happened again: ..-. .. -. -.. / .... . .- .-. Another jolt. The last: -.-- --- ..- .-.. .-.. / ... . . Mackenzie didn’t want to waste time decoding a body that insisted on communicating in wartime code. They kicked off their ruined sock. The Morse code stopped. The mattress accepted their weight—accepted, not welcomed. The coils rearranged themselves into a masochistic map of discomfort. A faint halo of sweat stains around the pillow area formed a saint’s aureole. When they rolled left, something jabbed their kidney. Sharper than the sting of blue hair dye running down their face on the first day of sixth form. They were called Smurf for six weeks—until someone pissed themselves in science. The window rattled a protest. Its putty-filled cracks were decorated with beer bottle caps and a crusty Greggs wrapper someone had imported as a hate crime. Three steps left, and there it was—the reduced-to-clear Ikea desk. A biography in stains. Leaked PG Tips (Mackenzie could smell the brand) tried to redraw the continents. Antarctica was missing. PG Tips clearly had beef with polar bears. Biro scribbles charted someone’s ex’s new relationship milestones: Went to cinema Saw Alan Turing statue Finally farted in front of him The three hallmarks of a successful relationship, as far as Mackenzie was concerned. They picked at fossilised gum beneath the edge—pink Wrigley’s. This place hadn’t been refurbished since 2012. The top drawer stuck, then shuddered open: Multiple Ikea instructions for items no longer manufactured. Domino’s vouchers. One desiccated satsuma segment (2018.) Condom wrapper (Ribbed. Expired 2021. Tragic.) The wardrobe door screamed like cattle being butchered. Inside: five wire hangers, limp and unloved, frozen in a tragic circus act. Mackenzie remembered Mum’s brief aerialist phase before the divorce—practising knee hangs in the living room while Dad played Leonard Cohen. An old Sainsbury’s bag hung inside. Within: a half-eaten Chicken and Bacon sandwich. A relic. This place had certainly not been cleaned since 2012. They traced the perimeter. Fingertips dragged over paint dry as old toast. That NHS-waiting-room mint green triggered phantom sensations of plastic chairs and 2018 copies of Vogue. Their reflection in the water-spotted mirror looked startled. Hair defying gravity. And then style. From downstairs, the kebab shop blasted Britney Spears. It seeped up through the floor. Britney and two-week-old meat. The hallmarks of a good weekend. Mackenzie plugged in their phone at the only socket they could see. The cord dangled like a noose. They unzipped the backpack’s main compartment. A battered tin of black eyeliner clattered out, rolling under the radiator to join the dust and lost hopes. Peeling off yesterday’s t-shirt, Mackenzie felt their ribs expand. Cool air rushed in. The window exhaled petrol-tainted wind across their skin. Somewhere in the alley below, a man shrieked with laughter sharp enough to curdle goodwill. Another text from Mum. Asking for an update. Mackenzie decided to reply later. Nothing they could say now would make her worry less. Their phone buzzed again. Dani, their sister: "Made it alive? Flat decent? Need me to send snacks?" A reluctant smile. Dani. Four years younger but somehow always the more practical one. The one who’d helped pack boxes, researched Manchester neighbourhoods. Mackenzie typed back: "Alive, yes. Flat is… a flat. Has walls and everything." The reply was immediate: "Walls! Luxury! Send pics." Mackenzie looked around at the bare, uninspiring space. "Tomorrow. Too grim tonight." "That bad? :(" "Not bad. Just antique." Mackenzie shoved themself into a shirt that was too tight and gave two fingers to the flat.
The train doors opened and the rush of exiting passengers pushed Mackenzie out. They were deposited into the very intestines of Manchester Piccadilly. Rain, thin and mean, punched the roof in tight, miserable fists. A child—no more than nineteen—in Primark’s answer to Balenciaga fumbled with a tube of mints, sending them avalanching to the floor. The green rounds rolled—one forgotten soldier tumbled onto the tracks. Rest well, sweet prince.
A woman in ASOS office wear—near the cheaper end of the on-sale items—clicked her tongue.
“Bloody menace,” she muttered, though whether she meant the mints or Mackenzie’s three-day-old, chipped nail polish wasn’t clear.
Mackenzie’s backpack—some forgotten relic from a 1980s car boot sale—hung awkwardly off one shoulder. Too lumpy. Too clumsy. Too London. It scraped continuously against a sunburn—a souvenir from a disastrous smoking session on Primrose Hill. London. Primrose Hill. Now Manchester Piccadilly.
It had felt like the move to make.
Inside the backpack were mountains of clothes that would be ditched as soon as they found their scene. Mackenzie still kept an Oyster card poking out from their front pocket—last used two weeks ago, back when they still believed London loved them.
Departure boards flashed overhead. MACHYNLLETH 10:17. CARDIFF CENTRAL 10:24. Trains presumably departed to other places not necessarily in Wales. Every passenger possibly moving on to a different life. Just like Mackenzie. They hoped.
The station announcer’s voice crackled overhead—a garbled warning about a delayed service to Sheffield. Mackenzie wondered who had ever been delayed going to Sheffield.
They pushed forward into the stream of travellers, letting the flow carry them towards the concourse. This was it. Manchester. The city they'd committed to, sight mostly unseen—apart from one boozy weekend six years ago and the carefully curated Instagram feeds of bars and galleries they’d been stalking for the past month.
“We are pleased to offer you a place on our Postgraduate Fine Arts programme,”
the email from the university had said.
Pleased to take over £9,000 as well, Mackenzie assumed.
Still, they’d celebrated with a bottle of cheap prosecco, alone in their bedsit in Brixton. The flat was the size of a sneeze and cost seventy percent of their monthly income from the coffee shop. Moving north wasn’t just about the MA; it was financial survival. A fresh start. A chance to be someone new—or maybe just finally become themselves, minus the weight of old expectations.
Outside, taxis and Ubers emitted carbon monoxide in the form of exhausted lullabies. A cabbie was picking at his teeth, unearthing leftover curry. He gave it a thoughtful once-over, reminiscing over a good dinner—or contemplating re-chewing it. A real specimen.
A woman who looked like the archetypal Liverpudlian—somehow lost but also in the right place—slapped the hood of his car.
“Eight quid to Salford. What do you take me for? Ken Dodd?”
The cabbie just grunted, more invested in the cold morsel of leftover curry. Or perhaps it was a samosa. Mackenzie could sympathise. They were a bugger for a triangle treat.
Their phone chose that moment to gasp its last. Map directions dissolved mid-route. The screen fractured into a spiderweb of poor decisions—Mum’s last voicemail still marked unheard, Tinder notifications from back when they still believed in bios that said, No Tories. Works in finance.
Rain slithered down Mackenzie’s neck. It felt like a baptism. It hit the failure of a tattoo under their ear. No refund. No butterfly. Just the dot. Some things weren’t worth the pain. No refund hurt more than the dot.
Someone had tagged STAY WEIRD MCR on a support beam in shaky canary-yellow spray paint. The R from “WEIRD” dripped like melted butter.
Somewhere, in the city that needed to be reminded to stay weird, Mackenzie’s new flat awaited. Ancoats. They’d thought it sounded cool until their mum said it sounded like a charity shop for pensioners in vintage cardigans. Mackenzie had imagined it as a mysterious singer instead:
“Please welcome to the stage… Ann Coats!”
They weren’t so sure now.
They couldn’t wait for the shower that would moan in E-flat when you tried to turn the heat up.
For eight minutes and thirty-three seconds (they timed it), Mackenzie stood still. A pigeon landed on the departures board inside.
It promptly shat on GLASGOW CENTRAL.
TWO
Mackenzie managed to dodge defecating pigeons on the way out. It took longer than expected, but they finally found it. They couldn’t settle on a metaphor, so decided it had taken longer than a long thing.
The flat—or more accurately, the studio. As much as things change, they stay the same. The shower didn’t look like it would moan in E-flat. It looked like it would file for early retirement. They couldn’t wait to test it out. To stand under the no-pressure cold water while contemplating: What the fuck have I done?
Impact reverberated around the room as the backpack surrendered to gravity. A cork of dust erupted—champagne it was not. Mackenzie waved it away, triggering a sneeze that made the single lightbulb sway.
They tried to turn it on. Nothing.
An ache in their foot throbbed in Morse code: -... .-.. .- -.-. -.- / .-.. .. --. .... –
Strange. They paused. It happened again:
..-. .. -. -.. / .... . .- .-.
Another jolt. The last:
-.-- --- ..- .-.. .-.. / ... . .
Mackenzie didn’t want to waste time decoding a body that insisted on communicating in wartime code. They kicked off their ruined sock. The Morse code stopped.
The mattress accepted their weight—accepted, not welcomed. The coils rearranged themselves into a masochistic map of discomfort. A faint halo of sweat stains around the pillow area formed a saint’s aureole.
When they rolled left, something jabbed their kidney. Sharper than the sting of blue hair dye running down their face on the first day of sixth form. They were called Smurf for six weeks—until someone pissed themselves in science.
The window rattled a protest. Its putty-filled cracks were decorated with beer bottle caps and a crusty Greggs wrapper someone had imported as a hate crime.
Three steps left, and there it was—the reduced-to-clear Ikea desk. A biography in stains. Leaked PG Tips (Mackenzie could smell the brand) tried to redraw the continents. Antarctica was missing. PG Tips clearly had beef with polar bears.
Biro scribbles charted someone’s ex’s new relationship milestones:
Went to cinema
Saw Alan Turing statue
Finally farted in front of him
The three hallmarks of a successful relationship, as far as Mackenzie was concerned.
They picked at fossilised gum beneath the edge—pink Wrigley’s. This place hadn’t been refurbished since 2012.
The top drawer stuck, then shuddered open:
Multiple Ikea instructions for items no longer manufactured.
Domino’s vouchers.
One desiccated satsuma segment (2018.)
Condom wrapper (Ribbed. Expired 2021. Tragic.)
The wardrobe door screamed like cattle being butchered. Inside: five wire hangers, limp and unloved, frozen in a tragic circus act. Mackenzie remembered Mum’s brief aerialist phase before the divorce—practising knee hangs in the living room while Dad played Leonard Cohen.
An old Sainsbury’s bag hung inside. Within: a half-eaten Chicken and Bacon sandwich. A relic. This place had certainly not been cleaned since 2012.
They traced the perimeter. Fingertips dragged over paint dry as old toast. That NHS-waiting-room mint green triggered phantom sensations of plastic chairs and 2018 copies of Vogue.
Their reflection in the water-spotted mirror looked startled. Hair defying gravity. And then style. From downstairs, the kebab shop blasted Britney Spears. It seeped up through the floor. Britney and two-week-old meat. The hallmarks of a good weekend.
Mackenzie plugged in their phone at the only socket they could see. The cord dangled like a noose.
They unzipped the backpack’s main compartment. A battered tin of black eyeliner clattered out, rolling under the radiator to join the dust and lost hopes.
Peeling off yesterday’s t-shirt, Mackenzie felt their ribs expand. Cool air rushed in. The window exhaled petrol-tainted wind across their skin.
Somewhere in the alley below, a man shrieked with laughter sharp enough to curdle goodwill.
Another text from Mum. Asking for an update.
Mackenzie decided to reply later. Nothing they could say now would make her worry less.
Their phone buzzed again. Dani, their sister:
"Made it alive? Flat decent? Need me to send snacks?"
A reluctant smile.
Dani. Four years younger but somehow always the more practical one. The one who’d helped pack boxes, researched Manchester neighbourhoods.
Mackenzie typed back:
"Alive, yes. Flat is… a flat. Has walls and everything."
The reply was immediate:
"Walls! Luxury! Send pics."
Mackenzie looked around at the bare, uninspiring space.
"Tomorrow. Too grim tonight."
"That bad? :("
"Not bad. Just antique."
Mackenzie shoved themself into a shirt that was too tight and gave two fingers to the flat.