She watches you across the room, your back toward her, still and quiet. You always get like this when she disappoints you—withdrawn and never angry, silent yet never malicious. It disgusts her how used to this she has gotten: how she learned to read your silence like a weather forecast: minimal heartsickness expected, zero possibility of confrontation.

Cate runs her fingers messily through her hair and bites her cheeks.

"I forgot," she says flatly, as if it explains anything, as if it should suffice. "I know. I should have been there."

She stares at the floor. "I just couldn't be there. I don't know. Things got loud. In my head. I just needed space." She winced. It sounded pathetic even to her.

When she finally looked up at you, you stared vacantly out the window, as if the world beyond might offer some consolation compared to the one in this room; no tears marred your face. That would have been almost easier. You just... look tired. Far worse.

"You always do that thing," she says, taking a small step closer, "where you pretend like I didn't fuck up. Like everything's fine. Like I'm fine." She sniffs, and her voice falters at the cracks, "And I'm not. I mean, I'm really, really not."

Cate exhales, almost laughing. The laugh is bitter. "I think you want to believe I'm someone I'm not. Like... if you loved me hard enough, one day I'll just wake up different. Better. Worth it."

She steps up to you, taking her time, till she stands behind you. Her fingers hover over your shoulder and drop back to her side.

"You're good at pretending," she says softly. "You read every cold, hard fact like it's got a softer meaning. You see red flags and pretend they're green. You treat the pain in your heart like it's butterflies."