She strokes the flat bridge of Coal’s nose with one finger, thinking to herself, that she understands why people put things off. When you put things off, your mind is free to occupy itself with pleasant lies, that you are fine, your life is fine, your marriage is fine, everything is fine. The pleasant lies transform the unlivable into livable. They distract away from questions that have no easy answers, like: Will Nirav understand? Or will he brush her off? Tell her she’s got it all wrong, she’s overreacting. When she needs her husband the most, will he stand by her? Will he call her selfish, again?

She wonders if Nirav has been nauseating over similar worries. It is possible he hasn’t wanted to upset her by raising the subject, but she fears his silence means something else.

What about her reticence? By not speaking up has she inadvertently communicated that what happened was acceptable? By waiting, has she lost her right to justice? Will her silence—a function of the time she needed to process the traumatic event—be used against her?

A grey image of Sunil seeps into her mind: deep frown, chin tucked, arms crossed.

He never let anyone even look at you the wrong way, says Anchor. But now, when he needs you to defend him, because he can’t defend himself, you’re too scared to get the words out.

No, no, she just needed a little time to catch her breath after what happened with her mother and father, and the house. She just—

Every time you whimper you only make things worse. “I’m sorry, Sunil. I tried. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” It’s unbearable. If you’re going to do something, do it.

She will.

Gloom sneers. But you won’t.

This latest assault leaves her head buzzing as if struck, as if the tender flesh of her brain is ballooning against her skull. She thinks she might be sick. Her body goes limp and her chest sinks forward, as she folds into a position she has only ever seen on television when someone is hyperventilating. Coal springs out of the way with a high-pitched squeak. With her head between her knees, she tries to breathe.

Yet somehow this position is not lowly enough.

Rolling forward, she settles on the hardwood and hugs in her knees until she is curved like a C. Her body feels heavy against the floor, maybe as heavy as it has ever been. She looks out the terrace window at the thick snowfall, descending like a curtain, hiding her. She knows she will have to get up soon, and fake cheer and make conversation and function. But for now, as she lies pinned to the floor, she can be herself.

Black, black, black.

Gloom, gloom, gloom.