How can she tell him about the nightmares where she sees Sunil’s death but is powerless to stop it. And the way her heart sprints every time she sees a police cruiser. And the way she clutches inside when someone knocks on the door or calls, the warming beacon in her gut blaring: danger, danger, danger.

Or about how every time she hears the word suicide it triggers her memory, drawing her into her horrors, scenes replaying themselves without warning or consent.

Or how she stops breathing for a second every time she sees a sky-blue car roll by the house, losing herself in a moment of hope, believing Sunil has finally come home.

How does she tell her husband that between violent bouts of sobbing, she dips into numb periods of disbelief, as though her brain can’t fully process or believe that Sunil killed himself, even now, months later.

She wonders if on his rare visits he has noticed the plum segments under her eyes, or the prominence of her ribs and pelvic bones when he holds her, or the Band Aid on her hand no one asks about.

How can she describe to him the waterlogged feeling of her limbs, the fuddled plodding of her mind, and the ache that has colonized every muscle in her body, maybe even every cell?

Then there are her guests.

How would Nirav react if she dared to tell him about Anchor’s pull, or Blaze’s heat, or Black Gloom’s slowly crushing weight? What would he say if she told him about their distinct voices, which sound like her, and yet not.

No, she can’t tell him.

He would send her away.

He would leave her.

And what about the other voice? The one she turns away from. Quiet and self-preserving, small and still, that tells her staying at her parents’ house is slowly corroding her health with wrenching memories embedded in every room, piece of furniture, family portrait, even the air.

This is not your home anymore, it has been trying to convince her. This place is a trigger zone. Staying here is making you sick.

This is where I belong, she tells it.

No, Anchor says. This is what you deserve.

Is Anchor right? she wonders. When she looks at the armchair by the front window, does she deserve to get transported to the first night of Sunil’s disappearance, to the place she waited all night, watching the street for his car, every part of her singularly focused on willing him home? When she gets the briefest glimpse of a family photograph, does she deserve to lose Sunil all over again?

Maybe.

Maybe Anchor is right.