Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.

You’re making this worse.”

I kept walking.

Priya didn’t tug me forward or tell me what to do.

She simply matched my pace.

Behind us, I heard Julian say my name again, louder this time.

He had spent so long defining what happened to me that my silence seemed to offend him.

I decided not to give him another explanation he could edit.

That night, I wrote one sentence beneath my original notes: A person who calls your fear an inconvenience is not trying to keep you safe.