[ as he continues speaking, she finds it's less what he has to say that overwhelms her, and more the way he's saying it. he's never once raised his voice to her, or even really around her, so it's a startling thing to hear for the first time, most especially when she had been careful to keep her own voice level. that strain in his tone, like something strangled and desperate. it sounds so out of place on someone who she's used to relying on for stability when she would get caught up in her own uncertainties and anxieties.

she really doesn't know how to feel about the fact that the one to cause it is her. ]

Am I supposed to be mad at you because you didn't tell me the whole truth? [ in direct response to his growing intensity, she sobers up and her voice softens. ] Is that supposed to make a difference? Like I wouldn't have still done what I did?

[ before anything else, before he goes on to put yet another weight on his shoulders, he has to know: ]

I don't regret what I did. Just like I know you don't regret doing what you did for Clara.

[ she has always been honest, and sometimes to a fault. sometimes at the expense of herself, in revealing feelings she won't yet name, ones she hasn't even really allowed herself to think too long on, but airing it all out there for anyone to make the connections themselves.

later, later, she'll think back on this and be rightfully horrified. she'll recognize the selfishness in herself, for standing firm where he clearly wants her to waver. certainly, it would be easier that way, wouldn't it? to let him make his peace and slip back into the den of solitude and loneliness he had prepared for himself. and maybe before, she would have, but now she's grown greedy.

(in a way, it's kind of poetic. thanks to him, she's learned to want a little harder for herself.)

she lets out a huff of a laugh, exasperated. ]

Estúpido.

[ him. her. ]

Did you think you would mean any less to me, if I knew how much less of you there'd be?