[She can't bring herself to tell him it was the wrong choice. Not here and now, at least. In truth there was no right choice and either way he'd have blamed himself. It should have been her choice to make, is the part of it that rubs her wrong. But it shouldn't have been something on his shoulders, either.

But the truth is that their lives aren't that clean.

So she sighs, but she looks at him, waits until he meets her eyes, and it's with empathy and not judgement. She's quiet for a long moment, and this time she's the one that looks away, and it still takes a moment before she speaks.]

It came back in pieces, slowly. Just this sense that something was missing. It was that night in Prague, when I realized what was wrong. I could feel the holes in my memory, but I didn't have the time to look into it then. But afterwards I did some digging, started putting pieces together. I kept a journal and tried to make sense of it all.

And then I sort-of threatened Clint into telling me what he knew. [There's a brief pause, a curl of her lips that's wry, and in the quiet she slowly places her hand against his. So here they are. She did mean it when she said she didn't need space, but finding the right words to say that on the end of the truth between them isn't as easy.]

I can't just step back in to what we were. But, if you were to ask me out sometime, I'd probably say yes.

[She needs something new. Memories that she hasn't had to tape back together like broken glass, and that glaring awareness that there's probably still things missing. Not what they were but what they can be.]