[ It would probably be easier if they were shouting at each other. But neither of them has the energy — they stayed, they fought, they tried so fucking hard — and these sharp little cuts hurt worse. Fresh wounds over the old ones. All that shit that hasn't ever really healed. Andy isn't even sure if it's really about Emily — or about something else, something buried that rears its head because she's worn to the bone and doesn't know how to show other people that she cares anymore.

She hates that she's like this. But in the moment, she doesn't bother to try and stop herself either. It's too late. It's already been broken open. And maybe some part of her can resist the chance to self-sabotage — because she is selfish, she is cruel, and she loves to use that against herself more than anyone. ]

Fine. I don't fucking understand you. I barely even know you. [ She bites back, baring her teeth on the words. ] You didn't ask me to give you anything, and it's my own fucking fault that I wanted to anyway. Even though I knew better. Even though I knew you didn't fucking need it.

[ She doesn't have to raise her voice to be aggressive. It's in her body language. The frustration and self-loathing. Love and hate. Regret and desire. The tension it creates in the line of her posture, emphasizing the natural severity of her face. ]

Maybe that's what I'm sorry for. I'm sorry that I thought it fucking meant something when you called for me — when you used my name. [ Andromache. Nobody's said it like she does in so, so long. ] I'm sorry I thought that meant I was allowed to care. I'm sorry, and I'll stop.

[ Liar. ]