First it was months, but then it became years. The memories of my sick sister and her subsequent passing replayed over and over in my head. But my brain started to weave the trauma into words and scenes and sentences. I didn’t write them down until one and a half years later, when I finally felt like my body wouldn’t collapse if I attempted. I was in Sofia, dreamily reading Georgi Gospodinov’s The Physics of Sorrow, when I started planning an escape out of my own head. When I started planning my novel. By the time I went to Paris and fell in love for the second time, I already had a title, a plot, and a first line. When my lover told me he would pay 1,000 euro for my thoughts, I told him I was writing a book about them, and he would have to wait until it was released. I whispered the title to him like a mantra, the first lines like a prayer.