[ She shuffles behind Jaime back into the living room, quiet, and only nods to indicate she's heard. It would be nice to think that she'll be out of tears soon, and that she's starting to feel calmer, or will be steady in a minute or two, but it's difficult to believe it. It feels like she's simply a pinball slamming into new aches from the-same-old-hurts to set her off over and over again. She's exhausted, and she's sick of crying, and sick from it, and so, so tired.

She manages to get to the couch alright, and sits as far into the corner of it as she can manage; the rest of the seating winds up on her blind side, as though the figurative wall at the edge of her vision could create a barrier in reality.

He frets; he worries; he questions, anxious, poisoned by her misery and producing misery in turn. For as awful as this is, she wishes more that she could just stop crying so he wouldn't have to worry so much. The line between obligate care and sincerity doesn't seem as important now as the why she doesn't, but how is — how is she supposed to do anything when she's the one making it worse? ]

I don't know. Yet. It's— [ Something. Bittersweet, and familiar, but... why is she still so upset? It's not supposed to be like this. She forces herself to exhale, and shakes her head. ] —hard to tell. Right now.

[ She shouldn't have come in the first place? Why did she come over? Why is she here? Why is she still here? What's the point? Why is she here?

With a shake in her inhale and another shake of her head, her hands drop briefly to her lap. ]

Can I have some water? Or whatever. Please.

[ She doesn't look at Jaime when she speaks. Slowly, deliberately, she sets the recipe card on the nearest table, and moves from that straight to the methodical unlacing of her boots, the careful loosening of the gusset and shafts. The dull noise of each empty shoe put once more on the floor is pronouncement: I'm staying put. I'm staying here. ]

I don't know if my tea survived.