Luckily, ten days have already passed since the night of my accident, and none of us caught the virus. My nose and eyes and lips slowly reverted back to their normal size. I have a cut on the top of my forehead that will probably turn into a scar. I still have a scab on my nose that hasn’t healed, and my two black eyes look more jaundiced now than bruised. I’ve received concerned texts from Gideon, but I’ve refused to FaceTime with him because I don’t want him to see me like this. Every morning, Neda’s greeted me in the bathroom and used her foundation to cover up the bruises so that I won’t feel like a monster during remote learning. The first few days after the accident, I could feel my stomach lurch every time I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I even sent Gabs a selfie, because as grotesque as I looked, I never wanted her to wonder if I was exaggerating.

The accident happened only a block from her apartment. Later, she’d recall that she heard the screeching of brakes and the sounds of sirens. In light of Andrew’s death, my parents said they understood why Gabs and I needed some emotional support, but they also made sure to remind me how Andrew got sick. He chose to see his friends instead of staying isolated. If his death should teach me anything, it’s that sneaking out during a pandemic is not worth the risks. We haven’t actually talked about the accident much since it happened, but now that my face is healing and I can turn my neck without debilitating pain, I can sense that I am due for a lecture. It would have been nice if they hadn’t timed it for right before Andrew’s memorial service.

“Your dad and I have been talking to your sister,” my mom says, sitting across from me at our dining room table, “and she’s talked to us about your anxiety. We didn’t realize it had gotten so bad, and we’re worried the accident’s only going to make it worse.”

To be fair, it already has. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m way too afraid to get behind the wheel of a car. But that doesn’t mean I appreciate Neda talking about me with my parents, behind my back. What’s actually more upsetting is that my mom and dad hadn’t seen the signs all along. I grip the armrests on airplanes for the entirety of the flight. I don’t drive on freeways. I make our entire family run through an annual earthquake drill. I’ve been a shut-in since lockdown started. Shouldn’t they have noticed my fragile state by now?

“We’ve found you a therapist,” my dad adds. “You’ll start Zooming with her next week.”