“You don’t know Pain.”

I have to smile when you say it, not because I think it’s funny or it’s foolish, but because I’ve missed that name. I don’t remember when I stopped thinking about Pain, about the moments we used to share curled up, toes touching, under the blanket or sitting a yard apart on the couch, silent, sullen, but still beside each other.

Of course, I know Pain. Or at least I did. I know she’s someone who actually manages to change regularly, and maybe I wouldn’t recognize her anymore. But if she came, threw her arms around me, and buried herself into my chest, I’d recognize the weight of her against me and the way she made my heart pound.

You don’t know Pain, is what I want to say back. Almost no one wants to know Pain. She’s not easy, in the sense that people hope for. I remember watching her writhe on my kitchen floor after I’d spilled a glass of wine. Crying, screaming, because what if the wine got on the rug? What if it left a stain? What would he say? His grandma crocheted that rug.

Back then, I made the mistake of telling Pain she was only making a bigger mess, rolling around in the wine. I should’ve told her he’s not here. He can’t hurt you. His grandma is dead, and he deserves to be too.

Pain wasn’t just a mess, though—don’t misunderstand. It was remarkable the way she could shape shift. When I sat outside the courtroom stifling gags, she stuffed a piece of peppermint in my mouth, shoved my shoulders back, and said, “You are going to calm down. You are going to stop gagging. And you are going to say exactly what I told you.” Maybe Pain didn’t know how to handle a little spill, but she knew how to win court cases. That’s the stuff that matters.

Pain was everything. Pain was in everything. I’d see her staring at me, warped, at the bottom of every bottle. Sometimes it was hard to remember whether she was the one who handed it to me or the one who told me to put it down. It depended on Pain’s mood that day. It depended on what she saw.

You don’t know Pain, but I promise Pain knows you. Pain will see the way you flinch, clock the way your head slightly swivels as you walk down the street, scanning for a certain license plate. And then, when you get home, she will install a new lock on the door and tell you there’s no going outside until you figure this thing out. Together.

Hence all the hours spent next to each other on the couch, looking at the TV with glazed eyes and watching an inspiring little ninja in orange.