It is an afterthought. He takes a step forward and is too close. He does this because it is what he does. Her heart skips painfully. He says, are you okay? and frowns, barely.
She doesn't know what makes him ask, but she wants to laugh with a kind of sick hysteria. She wants to let her eyes dart around the room, avoiding contact, that searing contact like he'll burn a hole through her skull if she meets his gaze. She wants to turn away, to stutter. To make it obvious that no, she does not even remember what okay means.
These are not things that she does, so instead of letting out a hollow laugh, she exhales. Instead of saying, I am a pathetic shell of a human being and I can't do this anymore, I can't function like this, and I'm sorry I'm not a stronger fucking person but please help me, she says: of course. She wants to let him see her hands shake. She places them carefully on her hips.
She is sparing him the burden of her insanity, she thinks, as she turns on her regulation heel. She will convince herself, later, that his concern was perfunctory. She only ever halfway believes these rationalizations. She wants to flee. She wants to, nearly to freedom now, choke out a sob - a wracking, desperate sob that bubbles up from a dark place. She wants him to ask her again, so she can relent, so she can cry, so he can comfort her. So he will touch her.
She walks to the turbolift, and her steps, measured, make little noise on the carpeted floor. She steps over the threshold and holds her breath as the doors hiss shut. She knows he will not have watched her go. She knows he will not ask her again.
She has known him a long time. He doesn't touch her. This is what they do.
She steps onto the bridge. The day begins.