Norouz, or Persian New Year, has always been one of my favorite holidays. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the only Iranian traditions we uphold in our house. It’s timed with the spring equinox and it’s all about rebirth and new beginnings. In any other year, my mom and I would have cleaned the house top to bottom and I would have happily taken charge of creating our sofreh haft-seen, a colorful altar that always includes seven symbolic items that begin with the letter S. There’s sumac, which symbolizes the color of sunrise, or sekeh (coins) for wealth and prosperity, but this year, I probably would have filled our altar with apples (sib) for health and garlic (sir) for medicine. Instead, I couldn’t muster the energy to put one together at all. I guess I haven’t been motivated to do much of anything since my accident.

My cuts and bruises have long healed. There are no more physical signs of the car accident on my body. We got the Volvo back from the shop yesterday—shiny and new again. We both look the same from the outside, but inside is a different story for me. Gideon emailed me an article recently that said anxiety is a form of depression, but I’ve never actually felt depressed. I’m used to feeling nervous at all times, but I’m not as used to feeling sad.

Maybe as Gabriela’s best friend, there wasn’t much room for melancholy. We had our roles picked out early on in our relationship. She was the pessimist who’d trained herself to have low expectations of life, and that automatically forced me to be the eternal optimist with big dreams. The yang to her yin. The light to her dark. The sweet to her bitter. But without seeing her every day, I’m beginning to realize that side of me was a charade. I guess it just never felt right to complain to Gabs about my issues when her issues seemed so much bigger. When you grow up in a family that has money, it never feels right to complain about your problems—especially during a pandemic, when there are so many people less fortunate than me. This is why I’m finding it so self-indulgent to pour my heart out in the virtual therapy sessions that my parents have forced on me. It turns out that forming intimacy with a complete stranger who’s being paid to talk to me does not come naturally.