Torn
For a moment, it's as though he's said something in a foreign language.
Because the words I cannot come with you are too utterly unthinkable for her to entertain the notion that he could mean them. So her first instinct is to laugh; but he won't meet her eyes, and the laugh dies before it is born and she blazes straight past fury to panic.
The words keep coming, and she wishes he'd stop because now they're all too clear; gentle words and noble and as merciless as armor-piercing arrows, every one of them straight to her heart, where there'd been no armor to begin with. She's dying inside, slain slowly by words, and the worst of it is they're all true, and so very, very him, and she can't even wish he'd chosen differently.
Because the irony is, had he done so, she could not love him so much.