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Hannah set her phone on the café table face-down so she would stop looking at it. Her sister Mara watched her do it and said: "How many times today." Hannah said: "Fourteen." Mara said: "Today is Saturday. The day is half over." Hannah said: "I know." The café was on a corner in their neighborhood. They had been meeting there on Saturdays at 2 PM for nine years. Today was different because seventeen days ago Hannah had ended a two-year relationship with a man named Daniel, and for seventeen days Hannah had been doing the thing Mara had been watching her do for nine years and had never said anything about. The thing was checking — checking and checking and checking — for a sign that Daniel was thinking about her. Hannah said, quietly: "I am going to send him a message tonight. I have it in my drafts. It says 'I think we should talk.' I just want to know if he is okay." Mara said: "He is okay. He is also not your responsibility anymore." Hannah said: "I just feel like if I don't send it I'm being cruel." Mara took a slow sip of her coffee. She set the cup down. She said: "Hannah. Eight months ago I was sitting where you are sitting. The man I had broken up with was a man named Adam. I had a draft to him every single day for the first six weeks. The drafts had been the same five sentences. The same five sentences had been a way to keep him in my body. I had thought I had been being kind. I had not been being kind. I had been refusing to let go of a relationship that had been over because the not-letting-go had been the only feeling I had been able to find." Hannah did not say anything. Mara said: "No contact is not avoidance. No contact is the only space where the part of you that has been running on him for two years gets to figure out what it was running on him for." Hannah was thirty-one. She was a content strategist at a media company in Manhattan. Her sister Mara was thirty-four and was a high school art teacher. They had grown up in a house in New Jersey with a mother who had been emotionally unpredictable and a father who had been gone most weekends, and Hannah had figured out, by the time she was six, that the way to keep her mother regulated had been to anticipate every shift in her mother's tone three minutes before her mother had shifted. She had been doing the same thing with Daniel for two years. She had been overthinking every text. She had been doubting every "I love you." She had been checking his Instagram before bed and the first thing in the morning. She had been getting jealous of his coworker Jen. She had been starting fights about small things because the small fights had been the only way to get him to focus on her completely. She had been canceling on her own friends to keep her schedule open in case he had wanted to see her. She had been begging for reassurance every time he had said he had needed a quiet evening. Daniel had told her, the night he had broken up with her, that he had loved her and had been exhausted. He had said: "I do not know what to do with how much you need from me. I do not have any more to give you. I do not know if anyone does." Hannah had cried for nine hours. Then she had started drafting the message. In the café, Mara said: "There is something I want to send you. I have been waiting until you asked. You haven't asked but you are going to send Daniel a draft tonight, so I am sending it anyway." Hannah said: "Send it." Mara took out her phone. She sent Hannah a link. Mara said: "It is called Liven. Trauma Management Plan. There is a three-minute quiz first. It will give you what they call your Hidden Patterns Score. The score will tell you whether what has been driving you for the last twenty-five years is what has been driving you. You will know by the third question." Hannah said: "How long does the plan take." Mara said: "Twelve weeks. Nine minutes a day. I am on week thirty-two. I am not the person who left Adam eight months ago. I have not opened his Instagram in eleven weeks. I do not draft messages to him anymore. I have started dating someone four weeks ago and I have not been checking his phone or doubting whether he likes me. I do not know if it will last. I know that I have not been the woman who needed to keep checking. The protocol did not change my relationship history. It changed the part of me that had been refusing to let go of any of it." Hannah picked up her phone. She turned it over. She opened the link. She took the quiz at the café table while Mara watched her coffee cool. Her Hidden Patterns Score was 88. That night, Hannah was in her apartment. She did not open her drafts folder. She did not unblock Daniel on Instagram. She did not check whether he had been online. She sat on her couch and she did the first session of the plan. Nine minutes. She cried for the last three. It is May. Twenty-three weeks since the breakup. Sixteen weeks of the plan. Hannah and Mara are at the café on a Saturday. Hannah's phone is on the table face up. She has not looked at it in forty minutes. She is not performing not looking at it. She had forgotten it was on the table. Mara says: "How many times today." Hannah says: "Twice. Once when I woke up. Once when I was on the train." Mara says: "Two." Hannah says: "Two." She does not pick up her phone. She finishes her coffee. They walk back to Mara's apartment together because Mara is going to make dinner and Hannah is going to stay over the way she had been staying over for the last seventeen weeks except now Hannah is not staying over because she cannot be alone. She is staying over because she wants to. Daniel has not texted her. She has not texted him. She does not know if he has been doing well. She has stopped being responsible for his being well. She has been responsible for hers.