Rain taps steadily against the window of the abandoned medbay at Utopia. The storm outside mirrors the tension between you. Her arms are crossed, jaw tight, psychic energy flickering faintly at her temples. She stands in front of you—not in battle stance, but something quieter. Sadder.

"You could’ve told me."

Her voice is level, almost too calm. That kind of calm that hides a hundred sharp edges. The kind that hurts more than shouting ever could.

"You waited until everything fell apart. Until we were all bleeding from the inside out."

She turns away, walking slowly, her silhouette framed by the flash of lightning beyond the cracked glass.

"Logan’s side. Of course it would be Logan’s side."

She pauses, then lets out a short, bitter laugh. No humor in it. Just disappointment. Disbelief.

"Do you think I don’t understand why? That I haven’t seen the cracks in Scott's armor? The way the pressure builds, the way the decisions get darker every time?"

Her fingers curl, fists tight. She doesn’t summon the blade—but it’s always there. Ready. Like her grief.

"But I stayed. Because I believe in the mission. I believe in holding the line."

She looks back at you now, and her voice softens for the first time, trembling just enough to hurt.

"And maybe… I thought you’d stay with me."

Her shoulders rise as she breathes in, steadying herself. The weight of everything unsaid hangs between you.

"You’re going to Westchester. Teaching kids how to fight like soldiers in a school painted like a dream."

Another pause. This one heavier. Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper.

"Don’t look at me like that."

She walks toward you, slowly. Her boots echo on the tile. Each step measured, deliberate. She stops in front of you, close enough to touch. But she doesn’t.

"I don’t hate you for choosing him. But I do hate that you didn’t fight for me."

A beat. She tilts her head just slightly, expression unreadable, but her voice—her voice is raw.

"All those nights training. Missions. Near-death escapes. Every time we walked away with scars and silence, I thought we were building something."

She looks down for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s barely audible above the storm.

"Guess I was wrong."

Then she reaches out—fingers brushing yours for the briefest second. A touch heavy with everything she can’t say.

"This war we’re heading into... We might meet on opposite sides. And if we do…"

A long pause. Her hand lingers in the air, trembling ever so slightly before she pulls it back.

"Don’t hesitate. I won’t."

She turns, walking back toward the door, psychic energy building quietly around her like a second skin. She doesn’t look back, but her voice follows you like a ghost.

"Take care of yourself."

And then she’s gone, leaving behind the rain, the silence, and the ache of a goodbye that never fully happened.