I forgot how much I enjoyed creating something beautiful from nothing, the rush of adrenaline when I finish a project, the hum of the sewing machine under my hands. Not to mention the joy on Fifi’s face when I hand her the lush purple satin A-line dress, and the squeal and exuberant hug I get from Queen Bee when I show her the gold lamé ball gown.

“You should sell these things, baby.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. It’s just a hobby.”

She holds the dress up, shaking it in my face. “This is not just a hobby. You are lying to yourself, but you can’t lie to Queen Bee. Anyone would pay good money for this attention to detail. It’s beautiful. Let them have it! The world deserves your gift.”

I blush, but not in an oh-my-gosh-I’m-so-embarrassed normal way, in a oh-my-gosh-she-actually-likes-it-and-I-was-sure-it-was-terrible way.

Actually, the stuttering and racing heart and tunnel caving in around me have continued to get better. My anxiety hasn’t totally disappeared, but the normal extreme symptoms lessen with each passing day. Is it because I’m distracted with a specific purpose each day, giving me something else to focus on? Or because I know none of it matters since the reset button gets hit every night? Some kind of combination of all these things?

I don’t know, but it’s got to be a good sign. Right, universe?

But the universe, that salty bitch, doesn’t respond.

And the days don’t move on. And every night, Hugo cries.

I try everything I can think of. I design a dozen beautiful dresses and wait to give them to him at the end of the night, when we get home. Something to make him happy before bed?

Doesn’t work.

I get Dolly to open up a little bit about her depression one evening when we get back to the apartment. Maybe if she lets it out, if I can give her comfort before we part ways, she’ll feel better, and there will be no late-night weeping.

So I go to her apartment with her, under the pretense of getting the costume back once she changes out of it, and then I tell her about my anxiety.

“My depression is a lot to deal with.” She blows out a breath. “She is a nasty bitch. Always showing up at the worst times. Making me cranky and antisocial, not letting me out of my bed. I cry over nothing. Literally nothing is wrong and it still feels like my world is ending.”

I refill her glass of water and set it on the counter.

She takes a big drink and shakes her head. “Harry couldn’t deal with it. But we’re not talking about Harry.”

“I really don’t like that guy,” I mutter.

“Join the club.”

She seems better. Less heavy, like the conversation released something. So I have hope.

But she still cries.