[ Why? Because Andy is fucking tired of dealing with herself. She'd crawl out of her own damn skin if she could, just to escape the wretchedness of existing. Maybe even she'd consider more drastic measures, if there weren't still too many things to live for. It wouldn't be the first time. Seven thousand years is too long to live without thinking of ending things, now and then. It might even stick, now that she's mortal. But she has her people. Her terrible cat. Her debt to the Enma. Reasons to keep on, even if it seems like it might be easier not to. Even if she sometimes resents having those reasons.

She's exhausted. Bone fucking weary. ]

This is all you do. Day in and day out. Taking care of other people like this. [ Her voice is a murmur, as if only half-spoken to Emily at all. ] And we're all chronically fucked up, so you always have to keep doing it. It's fucking Sisyphean.

[ But she's not ungrateful, is she? It's just that she feels guilty. Guilty that Emily has to see her like this. Guilty that it does help, somehow — even just feeling the water on her skin, washing off the staleness of her depression. The thick curtain of her hair clings to her body, plastered to her face and her throat as she stands there, her eyes fixed on her own feet, watching the rivulets of water run between them. ]

I'm the same fucking way. I keep doing the same futile shit. Over and over and over.