Ellie blinked once, and again; then her eye opened fully, glistening, before a fat tear fell out onto her cheekbone.
She hated crying. It was unfamiliar still, wholly un-therapeutic -- and it hurt, it made her throat raw and her eye red around the rim. She hated seeing other people cry, too, because now she couldn't see it without crying herself. Feelings were difficult. Sometimes Ellie cried, not because they were overwhelming, but because they existed at all.
Then there were the dreams. Bad dreams with bad implications. There was the oddness of surviving: how she had to force herself to be content with dying, when in reality it was just as difficult to be content with living.
And then there was David. Ellie had to close her eye again; he'd never ever kissed her like that before, and it made her happy even if it wasn't happy, and she wasn't happy, either. Not at all. It occurred to her to say a lot of things, but none of them made any sense, and none of them would help him feel better. That was what she was supposed to be doing, helping; she'd promised Elliot that she would take care of him always. The truth was, Ellie didn't know anything about mourning. The last time she'd tried, she'd gone mad -- but David was mourning now, and she would have to do it with him.
At last, Eloise slid her hand hesitantly away. It moved instead across the blanket covering her lower half, pulling it back for him with visible effort.