The third time I attended therapy, Dr. Amina’s office smelled like lemon and old books. The typical smell for all ancient offices, I guessed.

There was no couch. Just two chairs and a window that let in too much afternoon light.

"So," she said. "What brought you here today?"

I almost laughed. "Where do I start? The forum? The drafts? The men?"

"Start with what hurts right now," she said.

What hurt right now was the quiet. The fact that no one was mad at me, and I was still mad at myself.

"I feel dirty," I said. The words came out flat. The thought of the things I'd done...