She hates the feeling of falling, so she holds on to all she's got left. Inconveniently, all that remains is Theo, but he is her steady support. She needs it most when she sees Dante strolling through the halls, perfect Aubrey surgically attached to his arm. This is not a fairytale of her imagining.
And only Theo seems to care, but she can't guess at his motives; they're always hidden behind a smoke of his creation, the scent of tobacco thick and sluggish in the air. She finds it so hard, that he speaks to her only in riddles of reassurance and derisive remarks. That the golden boy speaks only in his tones of gold. That when he speaks, nothing real comes out.