As the days go by, Nico doesn’t seem to need to run any more. She has purple shadows under her eyes and sits by the window reading, or staring at the clouds. I don’t bother looking at myself any more. The more time slips by the less energy there is for talk of running away, of concocting plans, of life outside, of the future. My sleep is long and deep and low and wide, crazy dreamscapes taking me far away from this place, making it hard to distinguish reality from fantasy (something I was never any good at anyway). I’m not sure if Nico ever goes fully under; she doesn’t seem to close her eyes. She’s all hard angles and held breath, like if she dares to breathe out she’ll fall apart at the seams. Her radiance is gone, her cheeks pale, her hair wispy – like her, which in a weird kind of tragic-heroine way makes her even more beautiful. I can’t get my head around how much food she still puts away, although it looks like when she chews, it’s being forced down, mechanical and sore. She’s reading those two books over and over and must have memorised long passages, her concentration is so intense and consuming. I wish I could sit quietly the way she does. My mind gets louder in the silence and needs the constant hum of the TV to drown out the howling voices. Not even a catastrophist could have dreamed up this reality, Dad.

Nico hasn’t met a knight yet. Even her beauty doesn’t stir these gents – in their hearts. Ha, I can still make myself laugh. Sometimes.