The idea of worthwhile, of worthiness, of — how can she ever presume to even aspire to make them proud — it's something that she has grappled with for years, now, to unsatisfying results. It is exhausting to carry and it is exhausting to think of setting it down, too, when sometimes it feels like the bleed is all she has left. They shared so little,

if she is not guilty, what is she?

“Had that one in the barrel,” she murmurs, an echo of him. Long time, she'd said, and: yes, that's easy to imagine, now, in the weight of this awful understanding between them. What a thing to twist their hands around, to recognise in each other—

she is grateful in a way she doesn't love, that he keeps his face near her hair. Because she doesn't have to look him in the eye— because she needs to hold onto him, to breathe in the smell of him, to remember that all of these terrible things are not in this room, and she is in no physical danger, and if she said I don't want to talk about this any more he would probably kiss her forehead again, which would be nice, and he might do that anyway.

“I'm so tired of learning lessons,” she says to his shoulder.