I remember a day like the one I'm writing from, a slow and pitiful Sunday. I was at home and the world was falling apart. I had a night out with my friend Clara and was doing everything I could to put off getting ready. From the couch, the blanket weighed more than all the anguish I—for some reason—carried inside. The idea of having to utter a single word immobilized me, sequestering me a little further in that dim corner where I felt safe and sound. I cried because I was sad, and I cried because if I got out of there, I'd never be sad again. I thought about the questions my friend would ask me when she saw me—"How are you? How are you doing? And that?"—and the disappointment in her eyes if I answered them all honestly. Another time, I would have pretended. I would have made an effort to take her comfort and free her from that responsibility. But I simply couldn't. Having to hide reality made it even more unbearable.