I dreamed that I was confessing something and crying. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream, just an anticipation: I anticipated confessing something and bursting into tears. I don’t know if I want the relationship. I don’t know what to do. And then I was working with Ali, sitting across from her, at her dining room table, while she was on the couch. She asked me about a lot of things but she didn’t ask me about H. And I was glad she didn’t, even though it’s something I would normally have talked about with her, because I don’t know what I would have said. I wondered if I would break down in tears. Maybe it wasn’t even an anticipation, maybe I thought of my confession and it made me want to cry. My confession doesn’t even seem like a confession. Confusion, confession. I don’t know what I’m looking for—except a certainty I imagine I had in a relationship that didn’t work at all and was never going to.