Her hand, twisted as it is, reaches out and settles on his knee. She knows her diagnosis and she wants to reassure him that there's nothing that he can do for her at the moment but sit and be there, really. Hearing that she's not the only one experiencing odd out-of-time moments helps and she furrows her brow at someone being, suddenly, approximately fifteen years younger than they were supposed to be.

"In three years, the symptoms come," she tells him, her head jerking slightly as she turns it to look at him. It's uncomfortable and it makes her self-conscious to be seen this way, but if he's seen it elsewhere, maybe something he shares will give her an insight she doesn't have on her own. "I'm dead in five."

There. Saying it clinically makes her less emotional than if she thinks about it for longer, and she doesn't expect sympathy. She's seen it happen on video, knows her own future, and in that she's lucky. Supposedly.

She wants to ask if his friend is still young - and by extension, know if she's going to stay like this - but the words won't form and she stutters over the words.