[OA ducks her head with a huff of rueful laughter, one hand coming up to tuck some wayward locks of hair behind one ear.]

Yeah. I know; nobody is. I wasn't.

[She's registered his discomfort; of course she has. She understands it. Shares it, even, in the part of her that's still caught up in the need to maintain the illusion of independence, the part of her that still wants desperately to do everything alone.]

I didn't want anyone to know what happened to me, the ugly things I survived and thought and felt. Did. I was ashamed. Guilty. I didn't want to hurt anyone else, didn't think I deserved the indulgence of setting those concerns aside.

[Another of those earnest little smiles.]

Your story is yours. You get to decide who and when. If. I'm not trying to suggest it should be me.

[She looks away again, down at the pavement, glistening with rain. The lights of the city in bleary mirror, their side-by-side silhouettes floating along. Homer would know what to say. He's better at this, at drawing people back to themselves, at that kind of relentless compassion that seems so utterly guileless in a way she doesn't think she can match. Or... or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe neither of them knows how to operate outside of their cage. Maybe living in that microcosm for seven long years would leave them both floundering here.]

Sorry, all of this; I... you showed compassion, talking to me. I'm trying to understand why.