[ the quiet that follows his heavy sigh feels finite, and so she doesn't dare to ruin it with a sardonic response, content instead to let her work speak for her. she doesn't expect to hear him speak again, let alone in such a soul-baring way.

she keeps quiet, and yet her hands stutter, faltering only once as he speaks a truth so close to home she wonders if part of his envoy skills isn't seeing right through her. when silence settles between them again, she finds it isn't too difficult to think of what to say. ]

I think the worst thing about nightmares is that each time you have them, it always feels like the first time.

[ cruel enough for a mind to remind you of your pain, but to make you relive it each time like tearing open a new wound on flesh already so littered with barely-healed scars... marta knows how toxic guilt can be. how feeling like being the one to survive is meant to be a curse to carry the memory of those who left before you — for you — like an emptiness that just won't fill.

how many nights has she spent waking up to the memory of harlan's soulless eyes staring back at her? how many more has kovacs had remember so many more?

work done, she sits back a bit to give him some room. still, she has to keep busy, works on cleaning up and putting things away so it doesn't feel like she's reaching in, tearing out her own haphazard stitches to speak of a memory she won't let herself forget. ]

Before I came here... I lost someone too. [ the corner of her lips twitch, even as her vision blurs. ] A dear friend.

[ she looks up from her hands, follows the line of his spine up to the back of his head. she wonders what his expression looks like now. if it's in any way a mirror of hers. ]

It's... hard. Being the one left behind.