"You're not dead, Byerly, you left," Sonia snaps. She's tired of this dodging, this backpedaling, because was it a spur-of-the-moment decision or wasn't it? Anger shakes her, because every dodge feels like another betrayal, makes her dizzy. She takes that step closer to him again, cheeks burning.

"That Byerly made me feel safe. Like it was alright to be myself. That Byerly held me when I cried, made me laugh, listened to me. Why wouldn't I want that Byerly back?" She half reaches out a hand, pulls it back, curling it into a first. "You said you cared about me. That you still do. Was any of that real? Was any part of that friendship real to you, or just another thing to discard when it doesn't fit you anymore? Do you care now? Did you care then? Were you really that close, close enough to mourn it, or was it just something I was just foolish enough to buy into? Which is it, Byerly? Because if it wasn't real, if you never meant any of it enough for it to survive what you keep insisting was nothing personal, then just tell me now. Spare me my grief. Let me heal. But don't you hold that cut open like this because it suits your ego, your self-pity, your whatever -- if you really, truly believe that none of that was real enough to be worth saving, that my feelings were that stupid and misguided, then just cut me loose now."

She's angry, yes, but there's a desperation in her voice. She's tired. The longer he stays, the further any hope of solace drifts away. She's hurt, she's so hurt by his betrayal, but she misses his comfort even more. He just -- he just keeps yanking it out of reach, refusing to let her close the gap between her hurt and her healing enough for her to reach him.