I remain silent through yet another mandatory counseling session.
I am not as impervious to the Doctor's words as he believes, nor as I would prefer to be.
The appointment expended, I stiffly excuse myself and hasten to the privacy of my quarters.
It is indeed not what I think.
McCoy is right: what I feel is that I killed you, mother. I breathe out slowly. Guilt rises like some festering poison.
I failed you. I failed you. You were beside me and fell to your death. How could I have been so close and still fail to save you?