“It's enough,” she says, and part of that is: it has to be enough because there is never going to be anything else, now. Another part of that is: we are not in the habit of apologising to each other. A beat later, “I did, too. I wrote her back, I mean, I apologised. I promised not to leave her.”

And then she'd sat in her dressing room with her head in her hands for a long time, but what the fuck else was she supposed to do. What do you say to that.

“One of the last conversations we had, before they left, she'd come to see me after I turned up alive. You know, having been presumed dead the first time.” The first time. Presumed, because in that case she hadn't been, actually. “It wasn't as if...”

She gathers the letter back to herself with the passing thought that maybe the best revenge is the fact in her right mind Coupe would be so annoyed she's showed this thing to as many people as she has, “You know, the dementia means we can admit we care about each other now, so there's that.”