[Her gaze drops to the floor; the one avoidant response she can't help, because it's as reflexive as breathing. But it doesn't stop the lump in her throat from steadily growing so large she could choke on it. Doesn't stop anything at all.
She takes a breath that's meant to be steadying, but there's a hitch in it.]
It should be me. [Then, so quiet it's barely above a whisper:] I'm sorry.
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She takes a breath that's meant to be steadying, but there's a hitch in it.]
It should be me. [Then, so quiet it's barely above a whisper:] I'm sorry.