My first days in Barcelona prove that I have not been freed, but rather moved to a more comfortable prison. Ima pales at any talk of Sudan and is unable to fathom the idea of me returning to my profession. And she's not very good at it, but she tries to keep me close to her when she can.

We go out in the evenings to the club she's working for, but it isn't for fun. It's as if I have been given a security detail, but it's my little sister, not some ex-KGB bodyguard. She seems scandalised when she finds me after one particular set with a rum and coke in my hand.

"It'll only take one to get me there," I joke, trying to make her feel better. She just shakes her head.

"You make everything so difficult," is what she murmurs in my ear.

It rings true right up to my first appointment at rehab. Although Ima says it's not called that ("it's a PTSD clinic"), I am not one to mince my words. "But what is it doing?" I ask her pointedly, arms folded outside the polished glass doors of the centre.

"It's going to help you recover, cope, and manage your integration back into society."

I roll my eyes at her.

"If I wanted therapy, I would've gotten a therapist."

"It's not about what you want," Ima says firmly, some newfound backbone from her time here – now she's almost cooler than me and someone has told her she can stand up to me. Probably our mother. "This clinic was recommended to me by a very good friend. And if you want to be cleared for work again, you need to work through all the shit you have been put through." She omits a 'by them', but it is implied. One could say that if a newspaper sends a journalist out into a conflict zone, they should really consider how much that journalist is wanted by the Sudanese government already.

She almost picks me up and carries me inside.

I have to admit that I understand why we have come here specifically. Apparently, it's a residential facility too – a threat from Ima that is received loud and clear.

The clinic is a marvel of modern architecture, sharp angles and seamless glass, perched on the edge of a private beach that is so tranquil I need not ask why we were in the car for an hour. From the polished front doors, the Mediterranean stretches out like a glittering invitation, visible from nearly every angle.

The reception area is all soft opulence – stone floors with a faint sheen, low seating in muted creams and blues, and an understated arrangement of fresh lilies on a marble-topped table. The sounds of gentle piano hums in the background, barely noticeable beneath the calming rush of waves audible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I guess mental health looks better with ocean views," I mutter under my breath, earning a sharp glance from Ima.

She doesn't bother responding as a receptionist with impossibly perfect posture steps forwards. "Ms. Madani, welcome," she says warmly, English hardly accented and addressing me like this is a voluntary arrival. "We'll start with a consultation in our wellness lounge. Please, follow me."

Wellness lounge? God.

It's nice though. The hallways are wide and lined with minimalist artwork: swirls of blue and green that mirror the sea just outside. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something harder to place – an essential oil named 'relaxation', no doubt. It's clear that everything is designed to put you at ease, though the quiet forcefulness of it is unnerving.

The lounge is more of the same, with plush seating arranged in clusters around low tables. The panoramic windows frame the coastline, the sand gleaming gold under the midday sun despite the misery that is February. In one corner, a juice bar gleams with brushes chrome finished, attended by a staff member in crisp uniform. The menu, hand-written on a blackboard, all loops and curls, boasts concoctions of pressed greens, turmeric, and ginger.

"Is this a clinic or a fucking lifestyle magazine set?" I ask Ima.

She ignores me, instead gesturing for me to take a seat. "It's better than you deserve, honestly," she mutters, low enough that I almost miss it.

I sink into the chair, surprised by its softness. Imara and the receptionist leave, but it is so well-timed that I am caught unaware by the therapist who has been unlucky enough to be assigned to me. She's middle-aged, impeccably dressed, and carrying a leather-bound notebook.

Her introduction is preceded by a small chuckle. "We have footballers, hedge-fund managers, and people like you." I raise my eyebrows. "I think you know what I mean by that."

"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel better?" She hasn't even told me her name yet.

"I wanted to establish an honest environment first." A hand is extended in my direction with a slight smile, smile on her lips clearly struggling not to become a smirk. "Mónica," she says simply, her grip firm but brief. She takes the seat across from me, setting her leather notebook on the low table between us.

"Honesty, huh?" I say, leaning back into my chair. It swallows me a little, conspiratorially drawing Mónica's attention to what I look like. It's difficult to convince people I'm fine when I look like I have never seen a loaf of bread in my life. "Not the most comforting sales pitch."

Mónica doesn't flinch. "Comfort isn't always the goal, Anya. But I think you'll find the process rewarding if you give it a chance."

I glance out the window, watching a seagull lazily glide over the waves. "Rewarding. Right. Exactly what I was looking for when my sister dragged me here."

She tilts her head slightly, studying me in a way that feels too perceptive for my liking. "Dragged you, did she?"

"Practically kicking and screaming," I reply, though my tone is dry.

Mónica doesn't react to the jab, just flicks open her notebook and clicks her pen with deliberate calm. "Well, you're here now. Which is what matters."

I resist the urge to groan. "Let me guess. You're going to ask me to talk about my feelings? Or draw my inner child? Or whatever people do here."

"Not quite," she says, the faintest hint of amusement clear in her expression yet entirely unsatisfying. "I'm not here to perpetuate silly clichés. I'm here to understand you, to help you readjust to society. To enjoy freedom." She pauses. "Not to feel like you are imprisoned once more."

Her words hit harder than expected, even though her tone remains measured. I sit up straighter, narrowing my eyes. "I never said that." Aloud.

"You've not had to." She positions her pen over the page but does not write anything down. "This room isn't the first place you've felt trapped, is it?"

The question lands heavily, and I hate how quickly she's zeroing in on something I don't want to talk about. I want to deflect, to make a cutting remark about her tactics, but I instead find myself staring at the juice bar menu in the corner, reading the words 'beetroot bliss' over and over again like they are a lifeline.

"I've been trapped in worse places," I say finally, voice weaker than I intended.

She nods, not pushing for more. She probably already knows. "And you survived those. But survival is not the same as recovery."

"Recovery," I repeat, almost spitting the word. "You make it sound like I've been in a car accident."

She meets my eyes, unflinching. "I'd say you've been through something infinitely worse."

I huff out a laugh at her sympathy, though it's more bitter than amused. "You're bold, Mónica, I'll give you that."

Mónica doesn't smile this time. "I prefer direct. You have experienced things most people cannot imagine, Anya. I won't pretend to fully understand it. But I do know that ignoring it, trying to pick up where you left off, will not make it go away."

I don't say anything.

She glances down at her notebook, scribbling something quickly before looking back up. "How about this: for now, let's just focus on one thing you can control. You don't have to think about the bigger picture yet."

"And what's that supposed to be?"

Her pen stops moving. "Whether you'll come back tomorrow."

It's a challenge, and she knows it. I can see it in her calm, patient expression, in the way she does not press me further. She knows that this choice dangling in front of me will keep me hooked, if only out of spite.

"Fine," I say after a pause. "I'll come back tomorrow."

She doesn't gloat, doesn't thank me, doesn't even nod. She just closes her book. "That's all I needed to hear."

And so I go back the next day, to Imara's unbearable fucking delight. To counteract it, I take a taxi. I'm not suffering through her exultation.

However, despite accepting the challenge, now, in Mónica's private office, I really do not want to talk about it. She asks me why. I tell her, "why relive the past?" And then, guiltily, "I'm going to write a book about it anyway. It can be worked through there."

"You want to write it down?"

"Fuck me," I groan, because she has a glint in her eye that tells me she has thought of an exercise. I've walked right into this one. "I'm a writer. That's what journalists are. I'm not going to waste this material because it gives me nightmares."

My outburst settles in the air between us, Mónica lets it. And then she sighs. "Writing can be therapeutic," she says, tone light but deliberate, "but it can also be a form of avoidance. The distance of a page feels safe, but it does not replace the work that needs to be done."

I fold my arms and ignore her neutral expression at my exaggerated disinterest. "It's a good thing I'm here with a professional to ensure I'm sailing smoothly then, isn't it?"

Her head tilts. She must be unimpressed with the deflection. "Why do you think you're resisting this so much?"

"Because it's pointless," I snap. Maybe a bit too harshly. "Talking about it, digging it all up – it doesn't change anything. What's done is done."

There is something imperceptible in the way she sets her notebook aside, folding her hands neatly in her lap. I don't like it. "You're right. It won't change what happened. But it might change how you live with it."

I don't answer, my gaze darting to the window. The ocean glitters beyond the glass, the waves rolling in with maddening calm, like they have no idea how much worse this world gets beyond their little bubble of privilege.

"I'm not saying it will be easy," she continues, her voice softer now, like she's speaking to something raw and untouchable inside me. "But you're carrying all of this–" she gestures vaguely, blanks unfilled, "and that weight cannot be ignored forever."

I exhale sharply, biting back the urge to lash out again. She's too patient, too understanding, and I am becoming a cornered animal.

"You don't know what it's like," I say quietly. "Carrying something like that."

"No," she admits. "I don't. But I do know that it's heavier when you carry it alone." I swallow as she checks her watch. "Let's end early."

Although confused, I agree. Maybe it is laziness on her part. Maybe I have scared her off. Maybe I have proven that I don't need this, or that I don't need help with this. I'm opening the door to her office quickly.

"Anya?" I look back, halfway over the threshold. "Start a journal. Write things no one else will read before you try to share your stories with the rest of us." She's not insistent but she is firm. There'd be no consequences if I didn't, yet I can't help but feel obliged to follow her order. "There's a cupboard full of notebooks down the hall. Take one."

I nod.