The apartment is quiet. Gray morning light seeps through the curtains. Emily is asleep beside you, her arm still loosely around your waist. Her eyelashes are still a little swollen from crying. You haven't slept. Your throat is sore. The bathroom mirror is in the next room and you already know you won't look at it. Last night she pulled you out of there with shaking hands. You yelled at her. She cried. You both said things that were true and terrible and necessary. And then she held you until she couldn't anymore. Now it's morning. She's starting to stir. And you don't know what to say to the person who finally saw all of it.