Ziri's hand pokes between me and the laptop screen, holding my glasses. My ears burn as I thank him and slide them on, surprised, as I always am, by the sudden clarity of the text.

Ziri hums in response. He takes a t-shirt from the laundry draped over his arm and holds it out to me. 'Is this wet or cold?' he asks. 'You know, one could think you'd learn to wear your glasses after four years...'

I scrunch the cotton a few times. 'Just cold I think. And I can see fine without em.'

Leaving the t-shirt on the table, Ziri wrestles a grin. 'Can you?' he challenges and holds out a pair of cargo trousers.

'Definitely wet.'

Thanking me, he returns the trousers to the airer between the telly and the sofa because it's the only place it fits without being entirely in the way. Scooping the pile of folded clothes into his arms, he carries it to the bedroom. 'All I'm sayin is the world ain't supposed to be blurry.'

I tell him to shut up and, smiling, return my attention to the eight tabs of different internet providers I have open. The price of our current wi-fi plan increased so I need to check if there are better options but, with or without glasses, I can't understand half the words. I get delegated the administrative tasks because Ziri can't handle them with his ADHD but even I can't quite focus right now.

Checking that he's still in the bedroom, I open Facebook. Since we share this laptop, it's logged into Ziri's profile and I log out just in case there's a search history he can check. My leg bounces under the table as the tab loads before it finally logs me in. Even as a voice at the back of my mind tells me not to do it, I type Dominic Eaton into the search bar. Over fifty people come up and I scroll through slowly, peering at the small profile pictures for a familiar face.

It don't take long. I'd know those eyes anywhere. I click on the profile and his picture blows up. He's visibly older — his face has lost some of its structure and his smile carves deep parentheses on either side of itself — but he's no less handsome for it. If I saw him for the first time tomorrow, I'd still be struck by him.

My hands tremble. A canyon opens in my chest. I'm a single thread away from plummeting into it. But I can't look away, can't even blink.

Ziri's shuffled footsteps return from the bedroom. He talks about summat I can't comprehend. Is he accidentally speaking French? He does that sometimes when he's tired. But it don't sound like French either, it sounds like static over a radio.

A hand falls on my arm.

I flinch away so violently I fall off the chair. His confusion blurs as tears flood my eyes. Though I can still make out the flattening of his lips when he glances at the laptop screen. If he asks me why, I don't hear it.

Ziri sits on the floor in front of me. He reaches out to touch me but when I jerk away, knocking against the table leg so that the whole thing shoves back, he folds his hands in his lap. 'You're okay, hayati. Everything's okay right now. You're safe. No one's gonna hurt you. You're home.'

I can hardly hear him over the screaming from the basement, so loud it shakes the house foundations. Whatever tries to crawl out, it feels like it claws my physical brain in the process.

I grab Ziri's hand as I start to shiver. I squeeze it so tight, the tendons on the back of mine shove out of my skin like spears. Ziri caresses them as you would an abused animal — No one will hurt you, you can relax. He repeats affirmations that I'm home and safe but I'm not sure. As the sky and the ocean collide on the horizon, the past and future collide on my spine. I know the body can never exist anywhere but on the precipice of both but at this moment, I don't exist on the hairline fracture of the present; I exist in the past and in the future.

In both, I'm devoured.

Dominic's breaths beat against my ear. I sense him behind me, crammed under the table, waiting for me to turn around so he can swallow me whole. He's under my skin. I thought I got him out years ago but he's been living, like rats, in the walls all this time. When I hear scratching at night somewhere beyond my skull– no, somewhere above my heart– no, in the soles of my feet, I think it's nowt but a breeze. There's a draft in the house but, contrary to what Bà Ngoại thinks, it's hardly fatal. Just a draft. It's hardly fatal.

I couldn't have been more wrong; it's rats, gnawing at my joints until I stand up only to collapse.

Why am I afraid? I don't ever remember being afraid of him before. Can the fear of men be learnt?

'Hayati.' Though Ziri whispers, his voice booms in my head. 'Look at me.'

My gaze crawls up to his like a dying soldier who tries to flee even if they know death is imminent. Tears brim in his eyes but he smiles.

'It's just you and me here. You're in Brighton. You're twenty-three. It's 2013. No one is going to hurt you, Miles.'

Miles... Hearing it unlocks the band of panic around my chest; Dominic never called me that. The words process slowly. 2013, I'm twenty-three, I'm in Brighton with Ziri. He's not here. He is not here. I'm in Brighton. What the fuck would Dominic be doing in Brighton? He probably wouldn't even recognise me. I'm twenty-three years old. No one is going to hurt me.

One spinal disk at a time, my body compresses into the fissure of the present just as it compresses into exhaustion. My bones weigh thrice as much as they should. The only movement I manage is to hinge at the hips, collapse into Ziri.

I cry as he holds me, pressing kisses to the top of my head. At some point, he pushes me back to ease my glasses off my face so he can cradle my head against his chest. Ziri smells of his peach body soap and the parsley he cut for lunch.

'I'm sorry.' The apology is a cough through my dry throat. The only reason I don't pull away with embarrassment is that it'll be more embarrassing when he looks at me. 'I dunno what's going on with me lately.'

'It's calm.' He scratches my scalp, almost absentmindedly. 'Maybe you could... try counselling.'

Another type of exhaustion drops into my chest, heavy as a cannonball. I couldn't count on two hands the number of times Ziri has suggested it. Though he hasn't brought it up for nearly a year, there's the slightest hint of hope in his voice.

'Don't wanna.'

'I know you don't. Course, you don't. But, mon amour, you have to talk about it.' His caresses become intentional again, practised comfort to settle the anger brewing in my voice. 'And if you don't want to talk to me or Sonia or your mum, you should talk to someone else.'

'I've nowt to say.'

There's a quiet release of suction as he stops himself from sucking his teeth. 'What if you give it a go, and if you don't have anythin to say, then we know. You don't have to commit to anythin more than one session.' He pushes me back by the shoulders and feigns a stern stare. 'Miles, you can't just keep gettin new tattoos instead of goin to therapy.'

I glare at him though I'm sure my cheeks are crusty with tears and my eyes red so it probably ain't reet intimidating. 'Why not?'

'You'll run out of skin.'

A smile forces itself on my face. 'Then I'll get tattoos on you.'

'Sure, babes,' Ziri says with customer service gusto. 'If you wanna trigger my PTSD fear of needles and send me into a breakdown so damagin that I have to be hospitalised for the rest of my life, then sure. No problem.'

Softening, he wipes the tears from my cheeks as I exhale a laugh.

'Please,' he says.

'Fine.'

'Do you want me to book it for you?'

'Please.'

'Okay.'

            The walls of Dr Qureshi's office are painted emerald green. LP records rest on invisible hooks on the wall behind him, seemingly in a random pattern, but the composition is impeccably balanced. The whole room, situated in an annexe of his home, is decorated with such ease that he must have hired a designer. Even the napkins, the jug of water, and the box of fidgets are placed artfully on the table in front of me.

'To begin with, can I ask, have you been to counselling before?'

I toy with the hem of my jumper. Sweat pools under my arms. 'No,' I say, only to correct, 'A few times but it were just my school councillor and I were nine so... dunno if that counts.'

He hums and writes it down in the journal in his lap. Just as his office, Dr Attaf Qureshi is effortlessly elegant. His plain shirt and slacks fit like they've been tailored for him, his salt-and-pepper beard and hair are perfectly groomed. Even his mustard yellow square-framed glasses look like they've been designed specifically for his face, unlike my own which I picked at random because I thought I looked equally dumb in all of them.

After several days of us arguing, I let Ziri book me an appointment with a private therapist. The NHS waitlist is so long and, since I'm not an acute danger to myself, I'm far from a priority. We're paying for this with our savings. So much for an apartment with a balcony...

'I specialise in interpersonal and psychodynamic talk therapy. What that means is that I'm here as a guide to help you identify patterns in your thoughts and emotions and any potential issues they might be causing. If you're comfortable, I'd like to explore your past to find the origins so we can gently pull these patterns out by the root.

'We can try some cognitive behavioural exercises if that interests you but that's not my area of expertise so if you want to peruse that, I can give you some great recommendations for CBT councillors you can switch to. I also try to avoid prescriptions unless medication is truly what we decide is the best course of action.' Dr Qureshi has a sonorous voice. He could make good money recording audiobooks. 'I want to emphasise that your comfort is always the priority. You're in charge at all times. If I start to steer you in a direction you're not ready for or comfortable with, please just say so. We're going at your pace. Okay?'

I nod but he waits. 'Aye, okay.'

'Can you tell why you've sought out this session with me today?'

I peel my jumper off and lean away from the retro leather armchair but, still, my undershirt glues to my back. 'I tried to... have sex with...' My partner? But if Ziri picked this therapist specifically, he must have checked. 'My boyfriend. And I had a panic attack.'

'Okay.' Dr Qureshi shows no hint of surprise as if this is summat he hears at least once a week. 'Has that happened to you before?'

I shake my head. 'We've not had sex before. He weren't ready and now he is, so we tried but I went all... weird and I couldn't feel owt. Now I can't... you know–' clearing my throat, I glance down '–maintain an erection, like.'

It's been three weeks since our attempt and though Ziri has decided to pretend he has no memory of it unless I bring it up (which I have deliberately not done), I've discovered that now I can't wank either. Just yesterday, I spent twenty minutes trying when Ziri were at zumba, but even after I scrolled past all the slow-burn romance of my favourite manga to where they actually have sex, nowt.

'And you've not had sex before?' Dr Qureshi asks.

'No. But it's not– We just weren't ready. Our relationship's reet grand.'

He smiles kindly. 'I wasn't trying to insinuate it isn't. There's no schedule; each relationship moves at its own pace. Some people don't ever have sex in their romantic relationships, doesn't make the relationship less than. I'm only asking so that I can accurately map out the situation.'

Exhaling slowly, I try to relax. He's a doctor, he's not here to judge me. He only wants to help.

'Have you had sex before, with other people?'

I knead my jumper in my lap. 'Aye.'

'Would you like to talk about those?

'I'd rather not.'

'We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to,' he reassures. 'How long have you been in your current relationship?'

'Four and a half years.'

'Congratulation.' When I look at him, nonplussed, he smiles. 'That's a long time for someone your age. It's a pretty big accomplishment.'

I don't see how but I don't argue.

Dr Qureshi turns to another page in his journal. 'I saw that you're not on any medication now but have you been before?'

'For like six months when I were nine. Can't remember the name.'

'Fluoxetine?' he asks but it rings no bells so I shrug. 'Most likely it was fluoxetine since that's the only SSRI approved for children of that age. Were you depressed?'

I shrug again. 'My dad died.' Dr Qureshi goes to offer his condolences but I cut over him. 'Please don't make a big deal out of it cause my dad dying is not the reason I can't get hard.'

He laughs, though I can't tell if it's genuine or if he's simply trying to make me comfortable, to help me understand that he's human too and we can do things together like laugh. 'I wasn't going to suggest that.'

Setting his pre-prepared questions aside for a moment, Dr Qureshi observes me. 'You seem rather sceptical of this... I promise you it's not the Freudian nonsense we see on telly.'

'I've nowt against therapy!' I don't want him to think I'm some kind of tory who thinks everyone should deal with their problems by themselves and people these days are mollycoddled snowflakes. 'My boyfriend went to therapy for years and I know it saved his life. But... he's got real problems and that. I had one panic attack.'

Dr Qureshi compels gentle curiosity to his face, as if he's simply humouring me and won't write down what I say to use as the scalpel to dissect me with later. 'What are "real problems"?'

I hesitate. 'He tried to kill himself.'

For the first time, Dr Qureshi's face cracks. Greif seeps into his frown lines. 'Was this during your relationship?'

'Nah, before I met him. Anyway, he's got reet trauma from that. I've one shitty ex. It's not really a reason to go to therapy and all.'

He takes a sip of water to recollect his professionalism before he continues. 'People come to therapy for all sorts of things. I have heard as many different answers as I've had clients. There are no wrong reasons.' He sounds like a teacher who comforts their pupils by saying that there are no stupid questions until someone asks a question that is obviously stupid and the whole class laughs. He senses this and moves on. 'What about the rest of your family?'

'So, it's my mum and my little sister. Before we moved south, my mum's parents used to live with us most of the time — they moved between us and my uncle, like. Though my grandma died when I were eight. And when my mum decided to move down here, my grandad didn't wanna come so he just lives with my uncle now. And my dad's parents live in Leeds too.'

'What's your relationship like?' He don't specify with whom.

'Fine.' Put together, it all evens out to a pretty stable fine.

Dr Qureshi writes this all down in his journal. 'The "shitty ex" you mentioned, is he the reason you're struggling to have sex with your current partner?'

I scowl. How has he already inferred that from one slip-up?

'Dunno.'

'When you have these panic attacks, have you been able to ground yourself?' Panic attacks, plural.

'Well, Ziri — that's my boyfriend — has these techniques and that. He told me to describe all my keys. And he does this thing where he, like, tells me I'm safe and that I'm home, and that it's 2013 and I live in Brighton. He kinda repeats until I understand.'

'That's good. I'm so happy that you have someone who can help you.'

I smile, warmth kindling in my chest even now.

'What you described, that's a good technique to practice by yourself as well. When you feel unsafe and your mind starts to withdraw in that way, recounting how things are different from times when you have felt unsafe — something as simple as the colour of the walls to deeper things like how the company you're in makes you feel.'

Dr Qureshi asks me some more questions about Ziri and lets me ramble about him, about how we met and how we started dating, about how he's taught me to cry and feel emotions and how to be comfortable in masculinity without the negatives. I ramble about how he loves citrus fruits, how mandarin season is his favourite time of year, and how he breaks his fasts on Ramadan with a date and then eats a tangerine. I talk about the removed doors of our kitchen cupboards, how Ziri always leaves things lying around but buys me flowers when I clean them up for him, and how we argued about therapy.

Time passes much faster than I anticipated and Dr Qureshi eventually has to interrupt me.

'Our time is almost over but I'd really like to see you again.' He sees my dislike of the idea and smiles. 'How about we agree to three sessions — so two more — and if after that, you feel like you're not gaining anything, we end it there? Does that sound alright?'

I want to say no, fuck you, my skeleton is wrestling out of my skin and I've sweat two buckets' worth, but I need to fix whatever's wrong with me to have sex with Ziri. So I agree, though not before I tell him that if he ever makes me write a letter to my past self or someone who's hurt me, I'm leaving and I want my money back.

Dr Qureshi laughs, raising his hands in surrender. 'No letters, I promise.'