I make it through dinner.

I make it through the forced conversation in the living room. I make it through the moment Alex’s knee brushes mine under the table and my entire body goes tight. I excuse myself early, claim a headache, and shut myself in my room before anyone can follow.

I lock the door.

Then I unlock it again.

I don’t examine why.

The house settles into night sounds—distant television, the low murmur of our parents talking downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards. I sit on the edge of my bed in the dark with my head in my hands and try, one last time, to pray the...