'I keep, like, compulsively looking him up on Facebook,' I say as soon as I drop into Dr Qureshi's retro leather armchair.

In the two sessions after I finally stopped denying what really happened with Dominic, I've managed to become more comfortable here. Dr Qureshi were so pleased when I told him I'd finally shared a little with Ziri that it made me want to try harder — aye, I realise seeking validation from my therapist isn't exactly healthy either but this is still an improvement, ain't it? Also, I realised that I'm paying for this so I might as well get my money's worth.

'I spent four hours scrolling his fucking MySpace the other day when Ziri were at work. Like, I've already seen all his posts, there's nowt new for me to see. And I dunno why but I can't stop doing it even though it makes me feel awful.

'He looks so happy — and I know people lie on social media, but still. His life kept going like nowt happened. He has a dog — how can a person like that have a fucking dog? And he spends Christmas with his whole extended family every year and he must've come out because his gran gave him a RuPaul's Drag Race t-shirt two years ago. His family's clearly fine with it. Breaking up with me were nowt to him. I were gutted and it didn't affect him at all.

'I can't stop thinking about it; why he split with me. Since he clearly weren't going to Germany.' My voice splinters, my ramble tapering into a hollow mumble. 'Did I get boring? Did I get too old?'

Dr Qureshi offers me a sad smile. 'That's something we can only speculate on. Most likely, it was a combination of things. You said he moved in with his other boyfriend. Maybe he just thought it would be too difficult to keep his relationship with you a secret. Maybe he did get bored — that's not to say you're boring, only that, if you'll excuse the cliché, most predators love the hunt. You stopped resisting, physically and mentally.'

I nod and turn to the window. The basement swells, ravaging more and more of me until there's little else left. I teeter on the threshold, the stairs a damp tongue that tries to slip me into its maw.

'What if he's doing it to other people?' I whisper as I wrap my arms around myself in a vein attempt to stop the basement from hollowing out my entire ribcage. 'Because I didn't report him, or warn them somehow. If I'd realised it earlier, I could've told someone. It's my fault, ain't it?'

'No. The only person whose fault it is is Dominic. We often guilt survivors into speaking out with "what if they do it to someone else", but it is never a survivor's responsibility to stop a predator. Who should be held responsible are the people in his life who enable him — whom I assure you exist — along with our culture that normalises relationships like this.' Dr Qureshi smiles again. 'If you want to report it, absolutely you should, but it is not your fault if he has or will do it to someone else.'

'D'you think I should report it?'

He adjusts his glasses as if to see me better, inspect me closer. He thinks for so long that my leg starts to bounce and I'm a split second from breaking the silence myself.

'Honestly?' he says. 'No. The chances that it will be taken far enough that he will even hear about it are minimal, but it will be emotionally gruelling for you. There's a high risk that putting yourself through that process would send you back to square one, if not into a worse state than we started with.

'Right now, you should focus on healing. And when you're further along, you can think about reporting — or alternatives. If you do end up reporting it, doing it after seven years or nine years won't make much difference, so in this case, time really is not of the essence. There is no need for you to rush into anything.'

I take a moment to process his answer. He's right, ain't he? I've barely managed to tell him owt and he's a therapist — I'd probably have a nervous breakdown trying to tell the police.

'As for the internet stalking, it isn't healthy but it's nothing you should feel guilt over. We don't imagine rapists are regular people. Part of you could be looking for signs that he was born evil somehow. Part of you could be subconsciously gaslighting yourself — do you remember what that means? I told you about that during one of our early sessions.'

I shake my head, my ears burning.

'Gaslighting is when one person makes another question their sense of reality,' Dr Qureshi explains, not all impatient or frustrated by the fact that this is probably the third time he's had to do so. 'Gaslighters will say things like "that didn't happen", "you've always been too sensitive", "I did that for your own good", planting seeds of uncertainty until you mistrust your own memories and perceptions.

'Sometimes prolonged exposure makes us internalise it and we start doing it to ourselves. Dominic's voice in your head has had power and control over you for years even when he's not in your life and now that you're starting to question it, it's fighting to regain that dominance. When you spend all this time on his social media, that voice is telling you look, he's a normal person and normal people don't do what you're accusing him of so you must be making it up or misremembering.'

'How do I stop doing that?' I ask feebly.

'Unfortunately, it's likely always going to be there. But the goal is for you to learn to shut it down. The first step is just recognising the voice and that it is a voice, not some prophet of objective truth. You can ask yourself if you'd say those things to your boyfriend or your sister or a total stranger. Challenging it is vital — sometimes it helps to imagine it's a person you're having a conversation with, be that real or imaginary. You can also claim the voice as yours and imagine a conversation with another person, thinking about how people would react if you said these things out loud about yourself. But it will take time. You're doing so well, Miles.'

Silence falls until Dr Qureshi picks up the reins of the conversation, steering a sharp left. 'I'd like to talk about your life a little outside of Dominic today. Is that okay?'

I hunch a little, bracing for impact. 'Uh... sure.'

'If it's something that feels okay to tell me, have you had other sexual experiences, aside from Dominic?'

I seize the tangle fidget from the box on the sofa table. Somehow, it's conveniently placed on top of the other toys whenever I come in for my sessions. 'Aye. With one bloke from my football team back in Leeds.' Dr Qureshi remains silent which I've learnt means he wants me to continue, so I do. 'One time after practice, I had to talk to our coach about summat so when I got to the changing room, everyone else had already left. Except Yafir. We'd never really been mates or owt but we were in the showers and... he just, you know. And it happened a few times after that. Then one time I asked if he wanted to hang out or summat and he said, "Nah, I'm good". So... after that, I made sure to never shower alone and then we moved down here...'

Dr Qureshi hums, taking notes at the same time. 'How did that make you feel?'

'I dunno.' I search for a descriptive adjective but I've never had the kind of vocabulary Ziri does and my ears burn a little as I say, 'Bad,' as though I've failed therapy. 'I were gutted after Dominic split with me and I'd finally stopped thinking bout him all the time and I thought that I had a chance at a new relationship. But then it turned out to be just sex. Again.'

He nods. 'That must have been hurtful,' he says, voice sympathetic before it becomes firm. 'But it's important you know that the way you've been treated by people is not reflective of your value. You deserve to be treated with respect.'

By now, I'm used to crying in this office so as tears well in my eyes, I reach for a tissue but don't bother with trying to blink them back. Dr Qureshi has seen me sob and yell, it's too late to safe face with him. You deserve to be treated with respect. The statement is so simple and yet it floods me with agony. I went through all my teenage years without even considering respect an option.

It fills me with joy too, because Ziri loves me so gently. Having it spelt out to me like this makes me realise that being in a relationship for so many years without sex were exactly what I needed, even if there were many times when I wanted to have sex, times I were so horny I thought I might implode when he pulled away.

'It terrified me too,' I confess when my throat has eased up enough that talking don't hurt. 'Yafir. Because he knew, he must've — no lad who plays football would just go ahead and kiss another lad outta nowhere if he weren't a thousand per cent sure. I've always put so much effort into hiding and Yafir just knew. I don't ever remember having a conversation with him and he just knew.

'Then we moved down here a month later and I were terrified the whole time that everybody would be able to tell. I mean Leeds is one thing but Sufsdale, the town we moved to, were so tiny it's not even on the map. If someone found out, everyone would find out. I were so scared.'

Dr Qureshi adjusts his glasses again, then his legs. 'Are you ashamed of your sexuality, Miles?'

'No!' Why would he even ask me that? Is that the impression I give people, still, at twenty-three? I hesitate, then down my glass of water. 'Maybe. But it's not that. I just don't wanna burden other people with it.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'You know, if people knew, it would impact my family too. My sister would probably get bullied in school, my mum would have to deal with everyone knowing her son's gay, my grandparents would have to defend themselves among all their friends. It would be disrespectful to my dad's memory, too. I've no right to cause that just so I can be "out and proud" or whatever.

'My grandparents blame my mum for it, for me being gay. I need to be on her side but I've already burdened her just so I wouldn't have to deal with the discomfort of them asking when I'll get a girlfriend. It's selfish.'

But it weren't selfish. I did it because I felt obligated to for Ziri's sake. No matter what I do, I think I'm always going to disappoint people.

I start to cry again, though this time it's not love or grief but because I have no other way to expel the anger that fills the house like smoke until I can't breathe or see the door. I rub them away. I have no right to cry about this.

A woman followed me around Big Tesco the other day trying to get me to sign her petition against the marriage bill even if I told her I didn't want to, one of those Dear Mr Cameron, please keep marriage as it is. If Ziri walked past the mob, they'd throw insults at him — at best. How can I be with him when strangers on the street think I'm homophobic, so much so that I'll sign their fucking petitions? I'm going to infect him.

Dr Qureshi opens his mouth and I know he's going to suggest we change the subject. I cut over him because the words are wrestling out of my stomach like bile and I can't swallow them this time.

'I don't wanna deal with it either,' I confess. 'I've always been closeted. Section 28 were in power until I were in year 9. I saw how kids got treated when people thought they were queer and I never wanted that to be me so... I made sure it weren't.'

'That's a perfectly understandable response–'

'No, it ain't. Cause I...'

All the pipes in my mind-house burst open. Water surges in with the force of a tsunami, compressing the smoke against the ceiling. The monsters in the basement roar, not because they're afraid of drowning but because they're thrilled. Maybe I'll damage the house enough for them to get out.

'Instead of ever defending these kids, I started befriending the bullies. Cause they weren't gonna suspect me if I'm their mate, were they? That would be embarrassing for them too. And I did that at every school I went to. I'm such a people pleaser that someone could tell me to mug a ninety-year-old woman and I'd do it cause I don't know how to say no and I'm a bad person.' There's a timebomb in my throat. It's about to go off. 'Even my boyfriend. Even him I never defended...'

My chest aches and it's not the branches of the cherry tree pressing against the inside of my ribcage but guilt. Guilt that I can't scapegoat on Dominic or anyone else.

Dr Qureshi waits for my crying to calm enough that I'll hear him over it. 'You're not a bad person–'

'I am. Cause when my grandma died, I wished it were my other grandma.'

'Miles, you were eight years old. You experienced grief for the first time. You're not responsible for the fleeting thoughts you have, especially as an eight-year-old.' He sighs, not impatiently but the way Ziri sometimes does when he wishes he could factory reset his brain like a computer. 'Having done a couple of bad things can't be extrapolated to mean that you as a human being are bad. It's good you feel remorse over your mistakes and acknowledge when you've done something wrong but you also need to hold space for compassion.'

Dr Qureshi presses his knuckles to his chest as if he can reach in and grab his past self out. 'You need to be able to look at your past self and say "I wish you had handled that differently but I understand that you were afraid and I forgive you. I won't be afraid forever."'

I only stare at him, stunned out of my tears. I can't imagine myself ever saying that.

A smile flickers on his face. 'We'll work up to it.'

            The woven handles of the shopping bags cut into my elbow crease as I dig for my keys. I balance the bromeliad in my hand, careful not to spill any soil, only to almost trip on Ziri's trainers which he has left strewn right in front of the door.

'Sorry!' comes his sheepish call when he hears my stumble. He hurries to kick the shoes to the side and takes the bags from me, peering in to look for the things he texted me to buy. 'Thank you. My saviour.' He presses his smile against my cheek.

'No worries.'

I usually do the food shops, mostly because I'm the one with a car but also because if personalised hell is real, I think Ziri's would be an Asda Supercentre with a shopping list that always added an item when you managed to find the first. He's all for valuing daily life but there's no way he can romanticise supermarket chains and fluorescent lights — his words. Owt bigger than Barua's Market in Sufsdale is where his enthusiasm for groceries end.

'I also bought this plant,' I say, lifting the bromeliad. 'It were on sale.'

Ziri rocks from side to side in a happy dance as he beams at the orange flower at its centre. 'So pretty.'

Only when he retreats to the kitchen with the shopping do I notice the mess — like he's left every appliance and dish we own on the counters — and the picnic blanket at the centre of the floor.

'What's this?'

'We've not had a date in ages and I wanted to do somethin nice for you. Then it started rainin after I'd already started preparin for a picnic. And you're gonna be like, "why didn't you check the weather?" Well, good question...' He throws his hands into a dramatic shrug, holding an aubergine in one hand and a packet of Marie biscuits in the other. 'I thought we'd do it inside anyway. Who says we can't have a picnic on our kitchen floor?' Ziri turns to me, abruptly sincere. 'Is that okay? Or are you tired?'

'No. Course, it's okay. It's more than okay — it's lovely. Thank you.' Leaving the bromeliad beside the incomplete pizzle on the sofa table, I stride over to help him empty the shopping. 'Sorry for being late, I had to do overtime again.'

'It's calm. Gave me more time to prepare.'

Not that he's finished either way. When has Ziri ever finished owt on time? I smile, not bothered to attempt to repress it in his presence, though it fades sooner than I'd like.

'Eloise asked me to come in on Tuesday and I said I can't cause I've a doctor's appointment and she said, "what's with all these doctor's appointments lately?" Like, I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to ask that. What if I had brain cancer or summat?' I bite my cheek as I replay the memory. 'I dunno, maybe it were in my head. But then she goes, "when I promoted you, I didn't mean you could work less". Like what the fuck, I do overtime at least once a week.'

My stomach cinches. I shouldn't talk so poorly about her behind her back; she really ain't a bad person or owt. 'Sorry–'

'No, that's really unfair,' Ziri interrupts, digging out the grapes he asked me to buy. 'She can't expect you to work more than it says in your contract. And she definitely has no right to question you about your health — that's so intrusive.' He places the grapes into a bowl and fills it with water and vinegar, leaving them to soak in the sink.

His validation lifts the guilt that clings to my shoulders like a shroud. For a moment, I allow my eyes to fall out of focus, allow my mind to drift into the attic, before I blink myself back.

'Is it okay if I take a quick shower?'

'Please do. I still have more to set up.'

After showering, I change into a pair of loose khakis and a linen button-up: comfortable but a little nicer than Adidas joggers, and put on some of the pomelo and agarwood cologne he likes. When I return to the kitchen, Ziri is arranging the fruit bowl so that the new oranges and kiwis I bought are at the bottom and the old bananas, starting to spot with brown are on top. He has chopped up a bunch, multicoloured cubes piled on the cutting board. Candles light the room, real ones now that they're placed on sturdy surfaces, and rain tickles the windows.

Looking up, Ziri smiles and buries his head into his shoulders in a way that says summat like you didn't have to get dressed up but he's flattered I did. 'You look nice.'

I thank him somewhat halfheartedly and lean against the edge of the counter, facing a tad away from him. I lick my lips and swallow the saliva that gathers in my mouth whenever I'm about to say summat I don't want to, as if my body has evolved to drown words, to keep me silent. 'One of them protesters followed me round Big Tesco for like ten minutes last week.'

If he's bothered by the fact I'm only telling him this now, Ziri don't show it. He sucks his teeth and slaps the final apple into the fruit bowl a little too forcefully. 'Are you serious?' Reaching over, he gives my hand a squeeze. 'I'm sorry, mon lapin.'

The nickname makes the hair at the back of my neck rise but I pin up a smile.

'Aye, she wanted me to sign her fucking petition and all.'

Ziri rolls his eyes. 'There was a group talkin about it at Jummah too and they all looked at me and one of them goes "he's sufferin from homosexuality". What's that mean sufferin? It's not pneumonia. I ain't sufferin.' He walks to the sink and prods the grapes in their vinegar solution. 'I am perfectly carefree about it, in fact.'

Pouring out the liquid, he rinses the grapes before depositing them back in the same bowl. Then he sweeps all the cut fruit from the board into it too and places it on our picnic blanket, which is actually just an old bedsheet that got torn in his uni washing machine. He steps back, looks at the scene for a moment in case he has forgotten summat, and smiles.

'Sit.' He gestures at the sheet. 'I have prepared a delectable feast for you, my love.'

Ziri steps past me to flick off the lights and the orange flames dance along the walls.

'It'll get well sweaty in here with all the candles, you know,' I say, mostly to annoy him. 'I think there's gonna be a storm too.'

'It's supposed to be cosy and romantic,' he bites, though he steps over the sheet again to crack open the kitchen window. The drum of the rain erupts so loud, for a fraction of a second, I think I'm drenched.

Ziri takes my hand and pulls me down. I tug him to me instead and he falls against my chest so I can kiss him. 'Thank you. This is so lovely.' He pulls away smiling and this time I allow him to guide me to the sheet. We sit on opposite sides with the food between us.

He hands me a reused takeaway box as if we're on a real picnic outside. 'I tried to make bao. Hopefully, it tastes okay.'

He watches me intently and I realise he's waiting for me to taste. I ease out one of the fluffy buns and take a bite. 'It's good,' I say before I finish chewing, covering my mouth with the food. Then my brow knits and I look down. With my other hand, I fish out a strip of sticky chicken and eat it slowly. 'Did you... put cinnamon in this?'

'Yes.' He nods, almost solemnly. 'Also cumin and harissa. I'm sorry, it's how my dad raised me.'

I did once put fish sauce in his zaluk so who am I to complain? And it does taste delicious, even if it don't taste the way I expected it to. Ziri watches me eat a quarter of the first bao before he picks up his own takeaway box.

He tells me about his day between bites, about some drama between two of his coworkers and then about how he's had Royals by Lorde stuck in his head for four days now and he's about to fish his brain out of his skull with a straw like they did with mummies — It's a good song, but I've had enough.

The mirth vanishes from his expression. His lips twist and he forces himself to chew as if his mouth has filled with silicone rubber.

'It's fine,' I say. 'You can spit it out.'

Ziri keeps stoddily chewing for a few moments before he gives up. Getting a napkin, he spits his half-eaten bite into it and drops it in the bin.

'Sorry. I can't...' He shoves the plastic takeaway container away.

'It's fine,' I say again, making a mental note to buy drinkable yoghurts and soups tomorrow. 'Are you gonna be sick?'

'No, I don't think so.'

'I can make you a smoothie later.'

'Thanks.'

His hand subconsciously rises to his throat to check there's no tube in it, that he's not in a hospital, that no one is pumping his stomach. He takes a sip of water which he keeps in his mouth for nearly a minute before he manages to swallow. When his hand rises to his head and finds his afro is still there, a smile blossoms on his face again.

His own appetite gone, Ziri insists on feeding me grapes because it's the sort of romantic thing people do in paintings even if it fills my legs with the static of needing to run. I'd be much happier feeding him grapes...

I sit up abruptly, pulling my legs under me so I sit on my heels, directly facing his confusion. 'I'm sorry, I don't wanna ruin the date but I need to talk to you about summat.'

Fear strikes like lighting in his black eyes before he shoves it into the depths. 'Okay.'

Saliva floods my mouth, my vocal cords try to stitch themselves shut. Adrenaline replaces my blood like I'm about to go into battle. 'I'm sorry I were friends with Tristan and Lysander.'

Ziri's movements are sluggish like a slowed-down video recording as he sets the cluster of grapes into the bowl of cut fruit. 'Miles... that was six years ago. It's calm–'

'No,' I interrupt, 'it ain't. Because they–' My voice breaks. I have to yank the words out even as they transform into barbed wire. '–bullied you to the point that you tried to kill yourself and then I just became friends with them.'

His sigh is almost patronising. 'I didn't try to kill myself because they bullied me, I did it cause I was on the wrong meds and it made me manic and depressed at the same time and that's a deadly combo — pun intended.' Ziri grins in the self-indulgent way he does when he jokes about it and knows nobody else will laugh, but it fades quickly as he reconsiders. 'Maybe it did have a little to do with em... But you didn't know that.'

I switch position again, pull my legs in front of me instead and hug them. 'But I never said owt, did I? I just watched. I were so afraid they'd do it to me. I've done that my whole life. That woman followed me around Tesco for ten minutes and I couldn't even tell her to fuck off.

'And you're right, I do try way too hard to be like my dad. My dad wouldn't even like me. And I know it's mostly a joke to you when you say my masculinity's too fragile to wear skirts or whatever, but it's true. It's so fucking pathetic. Dominic, he'd fem... fe– what's the word?'

'Feminise,' Ziri fills in.

'It makes me feel weak. And I know that's fucked up and misogynistic and that. Like, I'd like to feel pretty sometimes, but I don't know if it's possible without him forcing his way in. I know there are things you want to do that you can't do cause of me. I'm forcing you backwards.'

By now I'm crying enough for my body to shake and I hide my face in my knees, my arms covering my head. 'I don't wanna be some fucking assimilation gay but I don't know how to exist in– I don't know how to exist. I don't know how to be in the world and not feel like I'm taking up someone else's space. I just wanna be invisible again.'

Silence rings in my ears until it's broken by a chime of laughter. 'Don't reckon you've talked this much in the past five years put together.'

I hear him move all the food to the side and shift closer to me. The scent of cinnamon and orange lingers on him from cooking.

'First of all,' Ziri starts, his tone clipped with so much anger that I stop rocking, 'I'm a very stubborn person, Miles. You can't make me go in no direction I don't wanna be goin in, astaghfirullah. Second of all–' his voice melts into syrup, delicate and sweet '–I love you.'

His hand falls onto my forearm and I almost flinch. He caresses my clammy skin, coaxing me to look up but I stay tightly folded in on myself. I wish I were as small as when I were eight, small enough to fit under my bed or into the black hole beside the hoover in the closet under the stairs. I should never have been allowed to grow so tall.

Understanding that I won't look at him, Ziri presses a kiss to the crown of my head. 'Inshallah, I'm in this for the rest of our lives. You have plenty of time to bleach your hair, start wearin pink speedos, and become an obnoxious anarchist fairy if that's what you want.'

My laugh comes with a burst of pain, my throat wrung too tight for such loud expressions of emotion. Feelings are soldiers in my body, they blow up spaces they don't belong in.

'Whoever you were in school... baby, that's barely gonna be a dot in our lives when we're eighty,' he continues, his voice gentle again. Until he turns to mockery, reciting my own words back to me, 'You don't have to keep apologisin when I've already forgiven you.'

Ziri kisses my shoulder, still caressing my arm and my muscles ease up a fraction. My breaths still shudder but they stop echoing in my ears so his voice sounds more natural.

'I don't go to queer events as much as I did at uni but that's not because of you. I'm just tired. And it's hard for me, you know — I don't always feel super welcome cause I'm devoutly religious. Sometimes cause I'm Black too, or cause I don't wanna talk about sex. It was fun to go with a friend group at uni but it's scary goin alone cause I can never know if it's gonna be all yovo, or people who think any other identity than the L or G is made up, or what.

'But I should go more — that is literally the main reason I wanted to study here. I mean, I love Sufsdale but there ain't exactly a flourishin community there.

'We could go together, if you want,' he suggests, somewhat tentative. I rarely joined the events of his uni LGBT Soc despite being invited, not because I didn't want to but because I'd probably embarrass him by not knowing who Pearl Alcock is or summat. 'Or you can go by yourself, you know. You don't have to be so antisocial just because I'm afraid of people — I don't want my mental illness to ruin your life too.'

He sighs, expelling the tension that has grown roots in his own body. 'I know you think I'm brave or whatever, but I'm really not. People clocked me as a frickin bender when I was like five years old — I never had an option. If I'd had the option of goin under the radar, I can't say I wouldn't've taken it.'

As soon as I can bring myself to lift my face from my knees, Ziri's hand is on my cheek. He dries my face, his eyes so gentle I don't quite dare to meet them.

'There's no rush, baby,' he says. 'You don't have to go out tomorrow wearin a prom dress and a leather harness or I'll break up with you. If you want to feel pretty, you can wear my skirts or makeup whenever, even if it's just at home.' Ziri presses a final kiss on my forehead. 'Petit a petit, mon amour.'