Yes, since I know you want to hear that there's not one damn day I'm awake on this ship that I don't think about my team, that no, I'm not okay, no, it's really damn hard seeing no one I know, being told by strangers what I'm supposed to be capable of, and even worse, being more than capable of half of it, that I still wake up crying because I'm homesick but that's not the adult thing to do, that I have nightmares that have nothing to do with what we're fighting for, I have to convince myself that any of this is worth fighting for long before there was a joke made by some woven piece of whatever the hell it is saying that if we walk the razor without cutting ourselves or sliding off we might, maybe, just a little hint of a chance get back the worlds we've lost, the universes devoured? If we can trust memories given back to us, taken away for our own safety. Tell you that no, I'm not okay, that you're the closet thing I have to a friend here, or more, or something else, and that I'm not sure how often I can trust you as far as you can throw me, let alone how far I can throw someone while half drugged? Yes, Marco, I lie to you. I lie to everyone and even when I'm ashamed I'm not planning to stop and you shouldn't know any of this.

The last statement seemed to still her, the roil of emotions calming just enough to be noticeable. She didn't like what he was saying in return, defensiveness a sharp, knee-jerk emotional response that went along with a series of no and it's not like that and you do the same thing and a final note of I don't know how.

She wasn't pushing anymore, was forcing herself into a semblance of mental calm if the feeling of whirling out of control was still threatening to drop her back into the panic. I don't know what I'm doing, she said, voice tight with something akin to pain and apology. How do I stop?