Iya and Baba sit on the sofa when I shuffle into the living room. Fatigue is evident in the puffy undersides of their eyes and though Iya rubs his head, her fingers forget themselves at his temples several times. It takes a moment for them to recognise my presence.

'You look happy.'

Baba jinxes it. No sooner have the words left him before I'm sobbing.

The transition is so sudden that the news reporter completes two sentences about an explosion in Islamabad as I simply stand at the edge of the rug, crying with no restraint, before arms envelop me into a hug. Iya's scent of cocoa butter and zozoma flowers only powers the flood of tears and I bury myself into her shoulder.

She pulls me to the sofa and they allow me to lie across their laps as if I'm still five, which makes me cry more.

I don't want to talk about it and I'm grateful they understand this and don't ask. They watch the weekend news. Iya holds the crown of my head to remind me that they'll turn it off if I want and Baba massages my tummy as if my worst ailment is a stomach ache.

The jumping back and forth from bliss to pain is the most exhausting part. A perverse twist to rapid-cycling, this one worse because unlike my bipolar, "cancer of the mind", this is entirely my fault.

At the same time, I know I would rather take this than the numbness of last week. The cliché is painful: be careful what you wish for.

By the time the weather report comes on, my tears have stopped. Sniffing, I sit up. 'I'm gonna... go shower.'

Out of fear that I'll lose sense of time and waste litres of water again, I pick up my cell and grab the battery from under the dresser. I'll put on an alarm for twenty minutes.

It takes a moment after it's powered for the notifications to pop up on the start screen, now sixty-two unread messages, twenty-seven calls, and ten voicemails. Don't. Don't. Don't—

I drop onto my bed and unlock the screen. Sonia and Dal attempted to reach me too, but I open the texts from Miles to read through the forty-five of them.

The oldest is from June nineteenth: "Goodnight. See you tomorrow then."

The next seven are variations of asking where I am or informing me where he is. Am I on my way? He's taking the bus now but he's sure I can still make it on bike if I hurry.

Then: "Are you still asleep? Sonia's pretty upset you didn't come but I'm going to lunch at hers and her mum said you can come too."

Next: "Please come."

His faith in me stays intact until the evening when his tone becomes frustrated at the fact that I didn't show up or at the least phone Sonia to apologise. He's been texting me all day and would appreciate an answer.

I choke from his anger but when he starts to plead fifteen messages later, new tears rush out of my eyes to blur the letters. Once I've started, I can't stop, and I keep reading even if I have to wipe my eyes between each.

"I'm sorry if I freaked you out. We can pretend it never happened."

"The kiss and that, I mean. We can go back to friends or whatever."

"Your dad said you're sleeping when I came over. Hope you're OK."

"Look, I'm sorry for my texts before. I swear I'm not cross or owt. Please let me know you're OK."

"Please answer."

"Ziri?"

My stomach twists. Even in texts, his hurt is unavoidable to the point I'm surprised blood doesn't seep from the cracks of my cell and drip onto my face as a testament to what I've done to him. I cleaved through his ribcage. I tore it apart.

What do I think I'm doing? I just string him along but never commit? He's hurt. My fault. I hurt him. I'm hurting him.

He deserves better than me. How can I sit here and say I care about him at the same time as I stab needles into the nerves between his spinal disks? I don't get to have it both ways.