It's three in the morning and the sky is dark and the trees are dark and the kitchen is dark, so you sit in the dark at the table and she looks out the window and you look at her.
Her hands are still shaking and she's trying to hide it by holding the coffee mug tighter, but at least she's stopped crying and started breathing again and this is an improvement from yesterday, from last week, from last month. She's been doing "sessions" with the Professor, you know, and behind closed doors and thick walls they talk about what's in head and the truth, what's real and what's lies and the meaning of the pain and destruction that she sees when her eyes close.
They talk in secrets and you don't understand, aren't privileged to know, and Logan says that's just better for you, for her, for everyone, but you're still the first person y her side every night she wakes up screaming.
"You always die alone," she says suddenly, breaking the black silence, and she's still staring off into the glass tainted early morning. "I…I don't know how many times because there are so many, and you always die alone and I never die at all."
The words that tumble from her mouth are layered with meaning that slips over your head, passes you by without meaning a lick of sense, but you know she means in the dreams or whatever the dreams really are; the memories; and you know you don't need the details to see that it upsets her to talk about, to think about, and she lets go of the mug with one hand to wipe furiously at her eyes.
"You die for me—everyone dies for me, and I'm just there to watch."
You slide around the benched table until you're next to her, and she's still not looking at you but that's okay and you wrap an arm around her anyway, hopefully comforting, and say, "I'm here now, and you're okay."
It's a mantra between you two these days, it seems.
She's not crying, is still trembling, and she turns her head into your shoulder and you listen to her breathe like she doesn't quite know how, learning the heavy and shaky pattern of ins and outs, and you will yourself to simply be there, to be enough, to tell her she is fine and you are fine and everything is fine and even if she can't see it now, it will be fine.
"You're here, but you're not, Bobby," she says after a moment, quieter than before, and you don't understand but you're trying. "You're here and you're there, in my head, but you aren't the same. The last day we lived, you died seventh and you screamed and you shattered and then it had never existed and you had never died for me at all, and you had never needed to."
When her voice fades out, you hold her closer and struggle for what to say, and you don't know what make sense except for what doesn't.
You don't tell her you're worried, that her words make you afraid, that the despite the brave faces and reassurances that she's doing well, that she's making positive progress, and the side comments from Rogue about whiny dramatics, you're frightened by the things she tells you and the things you know she doesn't.
You don't tell her that some nights you sit outside her door and wait and wish you could protect her always, before the screaming wakes up the whole floor and before you have to.
You don't tell her that even here, even not in her head and back in the reality where she is your best friend and you are alive, you would die for her in a heartbeat.
She's falling back asleep on your shoulder and you don't mind because that's good, that's helpful, and you'll do anything to help, so you sit in the dark that is fractionally lighter than before and feel her breath rhythmically, chest rise and fall against your side, and one of her hands is knotted in you t-shirt and you don't even dare to move.
"You're here, but you're not." Her words are soft and slow like morning fog, and you rest your chin on top of her brown-haired head.
Here but not.
You don't tell her that sometimes you think she's nowhere at all, and you don't know how to bring her back.