I nod. All it took to forget about his not-so-constructive criticism was seeing him smiling at me the moment I joined our Zoom meeting. He’s even more beautiful than I remembered. The dimple in his chin is less visible through his newly grown beard. His curly hair is out of control, and I notice that he loves to run his hand through it while he makes a salient point. He wears a flannel over a T-shirt that says I CAN EXPLAIN MANSPLAINING TO YOU.

“I’m totally fine,” I say. “Keep going.”

I do my best to pay attention as he regurgitates what he already told me in his email: a laundry list of all the reasons why my college essay would not grant me access to an Ivy League education. I nod at all the appropriate times and say, “You’re right, you’re right,” when he pauses for a response. His passionate tone makes his feedback come off far less brutal than it did in writing. Now it just sounds like he cares.

“So, what do you really want to write about?” he asks.

I take a deep breath.

“My anxiety,” I tell him.

It took Neda suggesting that I write about my anxiety disorder, me storming out on her, and then ruminating on our conversation for days to help me realize that my older sister was right. And yet, the moment the words come out of my mouth in front of Gideon, they feel disingenuous. Not because I don’t have anxiety (I do) or because I don’t think it’s a courageous topic for a college essay (also yes), but because I’m hoping he’ll see my admission as an example of something that connects us. I want him to realize that beyond our love of words and writing and dreams of getting paid to do what we’re good at, he will see that I’m the Naficy sister he should have pursued. If Neda is Eliza Schuyler, then I am Angelica. Though I’m not sure Gideon has too much in common with Alexander Hamilton. Either way, I am a terrible person for thinking any of these thoughts.

“Go deeper,” he says. “What do you mean when you say you have anxiety? How does it manifest itself? I want you to be radically honest.”

I’m not exactly prepared to talk about my psychosis this openly. I’ve never talked about it with anyone. I don’t know if Gideon’s form of anxiety presents similarly to mine. Maybe he just gets stressed out when he has a paper due or when he gets into a fight with Neda. Maybe his experience with anxiety is normal.

“How does it manifest itself?” I manage to say. “Well… I guess… in the way that I’m constantly afraid that…” I trail off. If I say it out loud, I’m worried what he’ll think of me.

“Constantly afraid of what?” Gideon pushes.