You come to me the next day, without making sudden movements, you take a chair and sit opposite, taking out a tablet with papers and a pen. I press my knees tighter to my chest and hide in a corner, afraid not of you, not of the pain that you can deliver, but of the words that will turn me inside out, gut the labyrinths of the brain and show new facets. They will wake up the one that looked at me for several seconds in the reflection of the mirror, the one that lives in me, with me, in my mind.

And yes, Alan, I'm afraid of her, even...