My arrival into consciousness is sticky. Sunlight presses against my eyelids but my lashes are glued together and it takes more energy than I have to pry them apart. So I keep my eyes shut as I slowly settle into the present, into Ziri's bed. I sense him moving around me — it must be him because my body stays relaxed.

I always thought I had some sleep disorder until me and Ziri moved in together and suddenly I sunk so deep into it that it scared me at first. I'd wake with a jolt, terrified in the first seconds of wakefulness that someone had broken in, the house were on fire, the world had ended. It never had. The world were just starting.

Ziri must sense I'm awake; the mattress dips with added weight. 'I made you some eggs. If you want, like, actual dinner, we'll have iftar when my dad comes home.' The shame in his voice is so thick that it finally wakes me up.

Ziri holds a tray with a glass of water, another of orange juice, and a plate of summat like shakshuka but without any vegetables. I catch his eye though he, still ashamed for not being able to cook summat more extravagant, flees quickly.

'Thank you, love.'

Picking out the sleep crusted in the corners of my eyes, I sit up and take the tray from him. Ziri is quick to disclaimer, 'You don't have to eat it if it's disgustin.'

I ignore him. I didn't know sleeping could make me so hungry but it's like I've not eaten in days; I've eaten a whole egg before I pause. 'It's proper salty.' He crumbles and I know he's about to apologise. 'It's okay. I'll just drink plenty water after.'

Ziri pulls his mouth into a smile but it's gone before it appears.

Fishing his cross necklace from under his oversized t-shirt, he pulls it back and forth on its chain. His teeth find the chapped skin of his lip but I nudge him with my foot and he releases it.

'I'm sorry I made such a mess. I'll come back home on Monday to clean.'

I chew slowly before I lower my fork onto the plate. 'It well stressed me out, to be honest,' I admit. 'I know you can't help it and I'm not angry with you, but... I dunno. It's such a small thing to make a big deal out of, but when you're manic or hypomanic, you always buy useless shit cause "it were on sale" or "we'll need it one day", and, like, my mum's a hoarder so it just well stresses me out.

'Like last time when you bought ten pairs of reading glasses cause "you'll probably need them when you're older" — in hindsight, it's actually dead funny, but at the time, like, that's exactly summat my mum would do and it activated my fucking fight or flight response.' Ziri frowns and my heart clenches. 'I'm sorry, I weren't tryna make you feel bad–'

'Shut up.' The remark is intended to brim with exasperation, so exaggerated that it becomes affectionate, but it comes out flat. He drops to lie on the bed, his feet still on the ground and the top of his head pressed to the wall, my toes under his back. 'You're allowed to talk about your feelings. Stop worryin bout mine for once.'

But guilt has a death grip. I shift around on the bed, my body filling with the familiar desire to run. Run until the feelings go away, until the only thing left is fatigue. Dr Qureshi would tell me I have to get used to discomfort, that communicating openly can feel difficult but the depth it cultivates in a relationship is worth it. I focus on breathing, the way Bà Ngoại taught me to when meditation.

'The chicken flowerpot were cute though,' I add when the jitters have faded. 'I ain't angry about that.'

The mist behind Ziri's eyes vanishes. Even his body comes back to life. 'It was cute! How many people d'you know with plant pots like that? None! So one day when we have friends and they come over they'll be like "wow, I wish I was as cool of a gay couple that I had a plant pot with chicken legs".'

'That's definitely what'll happen,' I say, stifling a laugh. It puts up only a weak resistance. I poke around the last few bits of egg. 'I thought you hated me.'

He shakes his head, eyes dull on the ceiling again. 'I feel so ugly.' He crosses his arms over his face. 'I don't wanna be your problem.'

'You aren't — you're my boyfriend.' I intersect my fingers and separate them again, biting my cheeks as I do. 'But I know I'm codependent. I'm gonna work on that. On my self-esteem, and on setting boundaries, and understanding that I'm worthy of love without solving everyone's problems because I'm a person and not a caretaker and I don't have to be so afraid you'll leave if I can't fix summat.' The words are alien in my mouth, forcing my tongue to twist into shapes that it never has. But Dr Qureshi says practising affirmations is helpful. 'I dunno how long that takes, but...'

Ziri stretches over the expanse of the bed to take my hand. 'We'll get through it together.'

'Okay.' My voice cracks, breaking the dam, and within a second I'm crying again. Why do I keep crying? My eyes might wear down like sea glass until they fall out of my skull. 'But I'm gonna quit therapy. For a bit, I mean. It's just too much and I can't process all of it–'

'Kilometres, you dickhead.' His monotonous voice only makes it funnier. 'Of course, you can take a break. Even in therapy, you burn yourself out. You're actually ridiculous.'

I dunno when I decided that but it feels right. Dr Qureshi gave me plenty of tools — and homework — and a lot to think about. I need to sort through all that first and then I'll go back. It's just a waste of money for me to continue right now when I can't absorb more. I'll miss it though. It's an odd realisation considering how much I dreaded it every week but I'll miss that space.

I eat the rest of my eggs. Ziri spins his cross on its chain.

'D'you wanna go swimming?'

'No,' he croaks but sits up. 'Though we should. Get some fresh air, move a bit. Then we can go back to sleep.'

'Fuck.' I drop my head back in satisfaction. 'I would love to go back to sleep.'

A hint of a smile brightens his face. 'Me too.'

            I wade my feet back and forth in the water. Ziri's are still. He tears apart the leaves that scatter the terrace, which must once have included an actual dock — my theory is that it rotted and the city never bothered to replace it, then eventually people stopped coming here. The sun has set behind the hills that rise around East Trough but the sky is still bright and the air is still unbearably hot. We don't talk but the birds are loud. Occasionally, a fish jumps in the water. The cars on the motorway sound much further away than they are.

Despite his care, Ziri fails yet again to part the willow leaf into perfect halves. He tosses the torn pieces onto the lake like confetti but rather than pick up a new one, he takes my hand. He holds it weakly, like he's had to talk himself into it so I decide it best not to acknowledge it in case that would scare him off. I don't hold any tighter than he does. The gesture feels like permission to talk.

'I saved your hair,' I say and flush. 'That sounds creepy. Not like– I just thought you might wanna donate it.'

Ziri remains silent. Maybe I've misinterpreted. But then he leans into me. 'I love that you thought of that.'

Maybe it's hopeful delusion, but I think Ziri feels better after a swim. Swimming somewhere so beautiful makes it easier to float in his head — that's how I feel, anyway.

'Did you want to visit your mum?'

I shake my head.

'She can see your car, you know. I think she wants to talk to you...' He must've seen my phone while I were asleep. The number of missed calls from her is steadily approaching triple digits.

'I know,' I sigh. I wade my feet back and forth in the water, watching the ripples they create. The movement disturbs the composition and a pocket of cold brushes my toes. 'But I can't take it right now. I dunno what I'm s'posed to do with her. She's my mum, I love her, but I just can't take it.'

'I dunno, I'm sorry. In my head your parents love you and they want you to be happy and I can't really fathom it not bein like that. Like my brain short circuits...'

With his free hand, he fidgets with his cross necklace. He bites it in the middle, uses it to centre his jaws but his teeth are too crooked and the gaps don't naturally align. Half of if sticks out like the hilt of a sword.

'I guess you just have to tell her how you feel. Maybe she doesn't realise what she's doin.'

I nod. Ziri continues to play with his cross and the tingle of it running back and forth on its chain joins the ambience until he traps it into his fist. His stare prods at my cheek, more tenacious than I'd expect from him like this.

His voice is still gauzy. 'I don't want to come between you and your family.'

I look up from the water, shaking my head. 'You aren't. You ain't done nowt but make me feel loved. They're the lot standing in their own way.' Halfway through the sentence, my body starts to itch with the need to pick at the scab on my thumb. The tightness that I've finally learnt to accept as anxiety bands around my chest. Ziri holds my hand tighter. Does he know?

I sink until my head is on his lap, slow in my descent so he can shove me off if it's too much. He don't. He caresses my hair, attention back on the water. Its surface blurs as tears well in my eyes. I don't know what I'm afraid of but I'm terrified.

Ziri continues to stroke my hair. He sings me the same Moroccan lullaby he usually does — nini ya moomoo, hatta yTib 3shana. His dad has sung it to him enough times for him to learn it. I've forgotten all the Vietnamese ones Bà Ngoại sang me in the pillow forts she made during storms. Maybe she taught me to hide when I'm scared and then she taught me to be scared all the time. I got so used to the screaming in my head that I stopped paying attention to it until Ziri moved in and kept asking about it.

Though quiet — so quiet it might actually just be the wind — Ziri's voice keeps me from being torn apart by the fear and I finally let myself look at it.

My mind is a house and I haven't gone to the basement for years. I can hear roaring, the claws that scrape the door to get out. But when I finally open the door and descend into its maw, there are no monsters. The basement is dark and damp, and though the walls are scratched, the marks are too tiny to come from any beast.

The only thing in the basement is me, a younger me, not sixteen, not nine, but younger than that. Five or six, curled up in a ball and trembling. I've been screaming this whole time. I've been beating the door this whole time.

I wrap my arms around myself, around this frightened child, and sing him a lullaby, one of Bà Ngoại's that I don't know the words to and yet somehow am able to sing. I stop shaking and eventually stop crying too.

I sit up abruptly. 'I think we should get married.' My heart pumps blood at a rhythm I'm not used to but I don't mind either. Ziri's attention is slow to transition onto me, his face remains expressionless. 'I don't know if that were just summat you said cause you were manic or if it were a joke but I wanna marry you. Fuck the government, I'll do what I want.'

'Really?'

'I love you.'

'Even if I look like an egg?'

'Even if you looked like a chewed-up pickle.'

He don't manage to crack the flat affect sown like a mask onto his face but his eyes mist. His black irises glimmer in the last rays of the sun. 'I want to peel you oranges for the rest of my life.'

My mind is a house and my body is a fruit: both are divided into segments, both are easily compartmentalised. Except to Ziri. Ziri has always accepted all of me.

I won't lock him into one room anymore. I'll paint the whole house orange.

            Ziri walks some metres behind me on the way home, his capacity for physical contact used up. His feet drag through the gravel, each step announced by the suction of his flip-flops. They stop regularly until they speed up just as we approach the end of the shrubbery.

'Wait.' I turn around on command. He catches up to me and holds out a small bundle of flowers. Wild marigolds, daises, and cornflowers. 'For you.'

I take it. His arm falls slack to his side.

'Thank you, love.'

He attempts to smile.

'Wait,' Ziri interrupts when I go to continue. 'Your mum could see.' He nods at my bare chest. My t-shirt and towel are draped over my forearm — even if the sun is sinking to the horizon, it's hot. We're in a heatwave and I anxiety sweat. It leaves my tattoos on full display.

'I honestly just don't care anymore.' My voice is flat from exhaustion, as is Ziri's when he responds: 'Wow, this new bad boy version of you is kind of making me horny.'

A laugh bubbles from me. It's absurd to be called a "bad boy" when the edges of my vision are blurry from the tears that still cling to my lashes, which is no more absurd than the idea of him being horny while as depressed as he is.

Ziri's parents' car is parked beside mine, Dal's still on the curb. We get inside to Ridha and Dal in the entrance, Dal in the middle of tying his shoelaces. Ziri's meagre smile falls when he realises Dal is leaving but he don't get the chance to say nowt before Ridha does.

'Miles-habibi.' He spreads his arms in welcome before clasping the sides of my face to kiss each of my cheeks, which he struggles to do, being so short. 'So good to see you. Have you been getting some rest? You're staying here tonight, yes? You can eat with us. Tomorrow breakfast, I'll make baghrir just for you.'

My cheeks are on fire but my insides are warm. 'I'd love that, thank you.'

Ridha smiles. 'No. Thank you.' I don't understand the gratitude that moistens his eyes until he moves onto Ziri and the twinkle of hope in his voice is unmistakable. 'Are you joining for Jummah, habibi?' This must be the first time he's seen Ziri out of bed since he came here.

Ziri chews on his lip but catches himself before he peels any skin off. 'Okay... I just gotta do wudu first.' He moves to the stairs where Dal is still sitting though his laces are tied. 'You comin?'

'I'm goin home, blud. You know I don't do congregation.'

'It's Ramadan. Please.'

'I ain't got my macawis or nuttin. I can't go pray like this.' He gestures at his joggers and t-shirt.

Ziri frowns, clearly trying to come up with a solution but it's not like Dal would fit in a thobe borrowed from him or Ridha. He mutters summat I can't hear and Dal stands for Ziri to hug him. I look away, try to give them their privacy until they separate.

Dal leaves and not much later, Ziri and Ridha leave for masjid with the rest of the Muslims in East Trough. I've not been in their house alone before and it feels like locked territory, so I find a small vase for the flowers from the kitchen and retreat to Ziri's room.

Ziri has left his clothes on the floor. And though I should probably stop cleaning up after people if I want to learn to set boundaries, I pick up his t-shirt and fold it. Then I grab his jersey skirt and before my exhausted brain can think it through I've pulled it on over my shorts.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My instincts tell me to twirl so I do and it billows around me. A laugh tickles my chest and I watch the fabric settle around my ankles. It feels good. I feel good. I thought it would look stupid with my tank top and tattoos on top to then wear a skirt but once I get over the initial confusion and fear, it looks pretty good — as good as Ziri's "depression skirt" with its stretched-out waistband and permanent stains can look.

I drop onto his bed with it still on, hugging his hippo-shaped bolster pillow, and stare at the ceiling. It, too, is lavender. I'm going to paint the basement.