Beside us, Lola and Jordan are now arguing about some movie, Jordan’s voice sharp with contempt toward his little sister. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m a burden, that I’m asking too much. Please tell me if I’m asking too much.” But even as I say it, I can tell she won’t mind, that my concern will only make her double down on the invite.

She lifts her hand and without asking, smooths my hair back. “Oh never, never. Remember, I was the one who stopped you. I was the one who wanted to get to know you again. You’re not a burden at all.”

Jordan scoots over to us, done with winning whatever argument he and Lola were having. “Please can we go home now? You said we could get pizza.”

“I did say that. But I’m having a grown-up talk with Suzy right now. Can it wait ten minutes?”

“It’s fine. I’ll see you all next week,” I say. “Besides, this is my lunch break and I’ve already been gone from my computer for over an hour.” And I realize that I want to cut it short, that I want to hear each and every anecdote of my and Anneliese’s shared existence, her fondness for me, slowly. So I can savor it, piece by piece, memory by memory, seedlings planted in my head, sprouting petals that maybe, with time, could overtake the rotting roots currently entangling my subconscious.

That night, after I’ve finished work, I don’t bask in the darkness like I usually do. I flick on the light, fold my clothes, trim my bangs, luxuriate in bed, promise myself I’ll do laundry tomorrow. When I began renting this place, I’d been drawn to the basement washer and dryer. But even going down the two flights has proven too effortful, too tedious. The rattling of the pipes scared me off more than once. So I took to buying new underwear when I needed it, answering the door for food delivery in my bathrobe reeking of stale sweat.

In New York, you don’t have to go outside if you don’t want to, and this last year I’d relished that. No one had to see my stained sheets, smell the dirty tampons collecting in my bathroom wastepaper basket. I could disappear, fully and deeply, into my walls and no one would know. I could die here and no one would know until I decomposed. And I loved that.

I had never experienced this desire before, this yearning to hide. I’d always craved exposure, always had a hunger to be seen. But something in me had flickered off when my dad, my biggest fan, died. Grief, depression, whatever you want to call it, had eroded all my usual sensibilities.