'He hates me.' Curled into the sofa with the same crochet blanket Ziri were tied in before he left, I can't stop crying. The house in my mind has flooded.

'He doesn't hate you,' Sonia says once more, though xyr patience is starting to wane; this is the fifth time during this phone conversation alone, to say nowt about yesterday and the day before. 'Ziri didn't even hate you when he tried — and he tried.'

'But he hates feeling like he's under surveillance,' I sob, my annunciation lost into the sofa cushion. 'You didn't see the way he left — he wouldn't even look at me. It's like he couldn't bear to be in the same room. And he won't answer any of my texts.'

'I'd bet he hasn't looked at his phone. You know how he gets. He said that needed space... Also, it's been like three days. He's probably just sleeping.'

Sonia's voice of reason falls on deaf ears. He probably is sleeping; he's dealing with the plummet from mania and readjustment to his meds at the same time which means he probably feels much worse than I do. But I can't stop imagining him rolling his eyes every time my name lights up his screen. He couldn't stand to look at me once before he left. Hatred were palpable; it oozed out of his pores.

'I shouldn't've stopped him going out. He'll hate me for it, for acting like a doctor, like he's hospitalised again.'

'What else could you have done?'

'I dunno. I could've gone with him.'

'He would've hated that too.'

Xe's right. There is no option that Ziri wouldn't hate. Mania convinces him that he's completely sane and he hates being made aware that he ain't. And no matter what we do, he will eventually realise it.

But I'm too deep in it now, drowning in my mind, and I can't stop crying. 'My whole family hates me. Like actually. They'll never forgive me for being gay.'

There's a pause on the line as Sonia considers what to say. Xyr voice shifts, becomes more sympathetic, and if there were any part of me that were still in denial about it, it's smacked into reality by xyr compassion alone. 'They might come around still. My grandparents did not react well at first and now they're almost too supportive. The last time I went to SA, they introduced me to everyone as their lesbian grandchild — like, to the delivery man and the taxi driver...

'But if they don't, they don't. You don't have any obligation to stay in a relationship where you're the only person trying. Like, my parents were really angry when I moved to Ireland to live with a girl I met two months before. And maybe it was a little crazy, but it's like an ultimatum for them: either you support me or you don't but this is what I'm doing. It's up to your family if they want to be in your future or not. You can't keep making yourself smaller to fit them in.'

I don't respond. My flooded mind is even slower than it is regularly and I have to go over her words several times before I can decipher any meaning out of the alphabet soup. Sonia allows me my silence. By the rhythmic background clinking, I assume xe has started knitting.

I miss my dad. He'd probably have disowned me already but I miss him. Even if all I heard from his mouth were rejection, I'd be happy — I don't remember what his voice sounded like.

I do remember what Dr Qureshi's voice sounds like, the sonorous rumble of it. He would remind me that two things can coexist: I can miss my dad and fear what my life would've turned out like if he hadn't died, I can love my family and choose not to have them around. If someone cares about my well-being, they'll respect boundaries.

'I think my parents hated each other too.'

I once told Sonia that my parents were "very much in love"... I must've known, even then, that it weren't true. I've never seen them in love outside of photographs.

The fact that I didn't know they were planning to divorce, that I never figured it out in hindsight, once again proves how dense I am. They argued all the time — it's all they did, like fucking world war three. Of course, they wanted a divorce.

'I just don't wanna grow up to be that miserable, like.'

The doorbell rings and I flinch. Even after I realise where the sound came from, that it weren't the pin pulled from a grenade, my heart stays erratic. Once I've rolled around and sat up on the sofa, I press my hand to my chest. I tell Sonia I'll phone xyr later.

My steps toward the door are weary as if there's someone dangerous behind it — maybe it's the police (Ziri's dead), maybe it's a doctor (Ziri's dead), maybe it's Dominic (I'm dead).

It's a Mariame.

I flush. I'm currently topless, I'm still crying, and I haven't showered in three days, but Mariame pulls me into a hug without hesitation. 'How are you doing, ma puce?'

'I'm fine.' The words can't be super convincing considering they're chased down by tears, yet I pathetically cling to the act. Maybe she'll have to believe it if I do.

She pulls away with a sympathetic smile, stepping inside and shutting the door behind herself. She hands me an Asda plastic bag. 'I brought you some jollof and aloko.'

I take the bag from her, pulling in my stomach so it don't announce my hunger too eagerly. As I see Mariame's pursed lips, my thank you transforms into a defence: 'Ziri told me not to clean so he can do it.'

'Mmhm, and he better.' She takes the Asda bag from me again and weaves her path to the kitchen, muttering to herself as she goes — Je ne sais pas à partir de quel moment j'ai été trop gentil avec lui.

As she leaves my side, I sour. The mess that my brain has conveniently blurred out for the past few days of my crying becomes visible again and it's only more overwhelming the second time. I hate it. I'm filled with fatigue and fury. And I know it's not his fault and he can't help it but the mess is too much, the thought of how long it'll take to tidy is too much, the number of unfinished tasks that strew the flat is too much. Too much like Má. This is supposed to be home. This is supposed to be safe but it don't feel like that now.

My body floods with adrenaline like it expects the clutter to morph into a beast and I have no sword and no armour. My eyes sting. My heart stumbles in my chest. I'm not having a heart attack, am I? Can you have a heart attack from stress? What if I have the same heart defect as Ba and nobody has ever discovered it because nobody has ever cared to check–?

The microwave pings.

'Come here. Eat.' Mariame bulldozes enough space on the table to set a plate down.

The smell of the food fills the flat. I'm too tired and too hungry to resist though it feels rude for me to eat alone when she's a guest. Mariame don't seem to mind: her hands fall on my shoulders when I sit down to knead out the knots as I eat, pleased that I clear the plate so eagerly. 'I left the rest in the fridge. Have you got any rest? Ziri says you're tired.'

I barely manage to shrug before I'm crying again. Abandoning my last spoonful of rice on the plate, I cover my eyes like it makes a difference. My throat cinches and my shoulders pinch back into the knots Mariame just massaged out. He told her that? How useless I am and that I couldn't help. If he told his parents, he really must hate me.

'I'm sorry.'

'What are you sorry for?'

'I promised I'd never get tired of him. I'm sorry. I'm so tired and he hates me.'

She kisses her teeth. Maybe they all hate me too. 'Of course, you're tired. He's an exhaustin person.'

She shocks me out of my crying. Sighing, Mariame pulls me into a seated hug. She wears a floral perfume I can't identify but it fills my mind-house and for a moment, it stops flooding. Her hug is tight enough to squeeze the water out.

'You know, we planned on havin three kids, Ridha and I,' she says, rubbing my back with a dry palm. 'We're both used to big families. But I think after two months with him, we agreed that, actually, one is quite enough.'

I laugh though it only brings more tears with it. Pushing me back, she dries my cheeks. I try to avoid her eyes.

'That is a ridiculous expectation to put on yourself, Miles. You think in twenty-eight years of marriage, I've never been tired of Ridha? You think in twenty-three years I've never been tired of Ziri? I've never thought maybe I'll send him to Benin so I don't have to deal with him?

'You're not a bad partner for gettin tired. Ridha and I couldn't ask for someone better for our son. But you need to rest.'

            It's Dal who opens the door. My anxiety is temporarily interrupted by confusion before it returns two-fold. Dal could literally kill me in two seconds and make sure nobody ever found out about it and I dunno what Ziri's told him.

'Miles? Why you knockin, bruv? Thought you had a key.'

'Aye, but...' I let the answer taper off. I don't tell him that I thought they might want to take the key back now. 'What are you doing here?' Maybe Ziri asked him to function as a bodyguard to make sure I don't get near him.

'Mariame asked me to come over while they're at work,' Dal says as he steps aside to let me enter. 'They ain't wanna leave him alone like this.'

Aye, they learnt that the hard way. They didn't ask me; I can't be trusted.

I take off my trainers, habitually dropping my car keys into the woven basket on the dresser full of hats and gloves that I sweat even thinking about. Maybe that's the anxiety. 'How are you?'

'Shit, innit.'

For some reason, I laugh.

'Can I go up?'

Dal's eyebrows arch. He gestures at the stairs to say have at it but I've only stepped on the first before he interrupts. 'He's bare depressed though.' Dal keeps his voice low so Ziri don't hear. 'Don't expect much from him.'

I nod. I don't expect owt from him, except maybe a kick in the face. I'll give him my teeth; they're about as good as owt else I'll ever be able to give him. 

My blood echoes in my ears as I approach his bedroom door and knock. 'Ziri?' No response. 'Can I come in, love?'

There's a rustle of movement, a creak of the floor: proof that he's awake but the door don't open. My spark of hope shatters, scattering shards inside my chest.

'I know you're cross with me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I only wanted you safe. If you want to split with me, that's fine. I get it...' I lean my forehead against the door, tears welling in my eyes. 'I love you.'

There are no signs of life. With my heart in pieces, I push off the door, but just as I step back, it opens. With the lavender durag and the dark circles under his eyes, he looks so much like the seventeen-year-old Ziri I first saw scowling at me through his bedroom window that I almost drop to my knees. If he asks me to, I will beg: please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me.

'I'm not angry with you.' He don't smile or add a pet name or even soften his voice but just hearing him speak washes relief over me.

Ziri opens the door wider in a non-verbal invitation and I enter tentatively, settling on the floor as he sits on the bed. His room is painted lilac — the opposite of the pus-yellow of his first hospital. An itchy silence reigns.

Ziri clears his throat of the thistles that have found a home in his depressed body. 'I don't wanna split up with you. I thought you wanted to split up with me.'

'Why would I wanna split with you?'

'Because I'm insane.'

'Yeah, but...' I tug at my earring. 'Love, I knew that when we started dating...'

'You're allowed to change your mind!' he snaps. The fury that detonates behind his eyes flares so hot, I almost expect him to char right in front of me. He yanks off his durag and his eyes lock onto his reflection in the corner of the room. Anger is clouded by disgust. 'Look at me. I'm hideous.'

His voice shatters halfway. As does his spine and his rigid posture sags into a hunch. His fingers claw to the back of his shaved head ferocious enough that I know it hurts.

I move to sit between his legs, guiding his hands down so I can replace them with my own. Cupping his face, I coax his eyes to mine. 'You're beautiful.'

He scoffs and his glare flicks to the torn magazine pages on the wall behind me. 'I look like a frickin egg, Miles.'

'A beautiful egg then.' I smile but Ziri still won't look at me. I caress his head. Mariame has evened the shave and conditioned the little hair that's left so that touching it is soft as petting a kitten. Once the shock of change passes, I think it suits him. It makes him look quite modern. But he won't see it that way. 'You could always wear a wig.'

'It's not the same.' He sees the fifteen-year-old version of himself every time he passes a reflective surface. 'I have to start all over again.'

'So you'll start over again. Time goes so fast these days, seven years will have passed before you blink, swear down.'

Ziri sits up, my hands fall from him, and miserably ties the durag back on. He has free fallen into the blackness in his head and no matter how many rope ladders I throw down, I won't get him to climb out. He don't believe he deserves to.

He looks up at me, finding a floating log in the depths of his self-hatred that allows him to rest long enough to become inquisitive. 'Why would I wanna split up with you?'

'Because I'm a useless boyfriend,' I state. My hands are restless in my lap. 'I keep betraying you. When we were still in school and I keep doing it now. I didn't even notice when you stopped taking your meds. I were too fucking pathetic to even tell my family about you for years. I mean, the list goes on.

'And I'm stupid. You should be with someone all intellectual like you who can talk about queer theory and Nietzsche. I don't even know how to spell Nietzsche! It starts with an N and then I have no idea. Is it e? Is it i? Fucking y? I've not got a fucking clue!' The words tangle as they speed up. They've gained too much momentum for me to hold them back. 'You shouldn't be with someone who has the intelligence of a fly. You shouldn't be with someone stupid enough to get groomed when everyone else could see how fucked up it is.'

'Miles...' Ziri slides onto the floor beside me though his arms are clamped over his chest, each hand gripping the opposite shoulder.

I fold into myself like origami, desperate to become as small as possible. It should be possible to fold me in half enough times that I vanish, cease existence until someone shapes me into whatever they need. My breaths are heavy, forcing my chest to expand, so I try to hold it. I've always existed too much.

I cover my head with my arms so I don't have to look at him. My fingers dig into my scalp. 'I'm so stupid. I'm so fucking pathetic and needy for attention I'll take it from anywhere. My whole family hates me and I'm so desperate for their approval that I let them treat me however they like. Iris is right, I am a fucking doormat. I'm so fucking desperate for people to like me.' My voice cracks. 'I just want you to like me.'

'I like you.'

'No, you don't. You love me. That ain't the same thing.'

Ziri kisses his teeth. 'I like you, Miles.'

I snap my head up. Pain shoots through my neck and only adds to my anger. 'What d'you like?'

He leans sideways against his bedframe. The chapped skin of his lips stretches into a light smile. 'I like that you only ever make jokes in the most self-despondent way I've seen in my life. It's pathetic. And I like that you can be pathetic sometimes cause it's entertainin for me. I like that you always tie the bread bag too tight and then can't get it open cause your nails are so short and then you have to ask me to do it. You could just use the clip or a rubber band, but I like that you let me do that for you. I like how you cry every time we watch The Office because that's a sitcom, it's supposed to make you laugh, and you cry every episode an that is bare weird.

'I'm not gonna lie to your face cause you are stupid. You thought a kilo and a kilogramme were different things until last year and you once genuinely asked me how they make peacock feathers. You're twenty-four years old and I'm pretty sure you still think the ocean is blue because it reflects the sky. So why is the sky blue then? What was blue first? That's not how colours work. It's like you finished second year of primary school and thought "yep, that's it, all the knowledge I'll ever need, Imma retire my learnin brain".' Ziri takes a deep breath just as I'm about to interrupt. Message received.

'But you're not stupid for falling for a groomer. And you're not stupid for lovin your mum or hoping that she would love you more.'

Eyes nailed onto the wall, he scratches his cheek. 'Do you realise how racist and ableist it is to value people based on their intelligence? I don't care. I feel safe with you — whether I'm weird, or annoying, or overly affectionate, or whatever. I'm safe to be all of that with you. I'm never too much for you.'

He shuffles closer though his depression makes physical contact too undesirable for a hug. Instead, he rests his head on my shoulder and the orange walls cradle me.