"Giles, I'm sixteen years old," Buffy murmurs, trembles, cries in the back of her throat, "I don't wanna die."
None of them understand it. The day goes on, goes by, and Buffy goes through the motions. She feels like she's died from the inside-out, and furthermore realizes how badly she doesn't want to die from the outside-in.
It's so easy for everyone else to say. It's the simplest damn thing for Giles, safely surrounded by a wall of books that coat him in their musty smell and keep away all the bad. Buffy loves the way Giles smells. Giles smells like the father Buffy wishes she always had, but substitutes with an old, British Watcher who hides behind all his damn books.
And it's just so simple for everyone to stand around and talk about prophecies. Prophecies and ideas that will lead to Buffy's impending end. And they can all just talk talk talk and Buffy can listen listen listen and die die die just like she's supposed to.
Buffy leaves. It's swift, it hurts. Giles breathes. It hurts just as badly.
Buffy's demise is a hard pill to swallow.