She couldn't be close enough to him, couldn't find a place where their bodies fit together snugly enough to suit her. Bones made for such awkward angles; why couldn't people stop having them when they needed to comfort each other and just become all flesh?
She was clinging to him now, all dignity gone. On an ordinary day, she would have felt marginally self-conscious about her bare legs (nobody's shaved them in two weeks, dude) or her breath or her unbrushed and unwashed hair, and she didn't care. She just didn't fucking care anymore.
"Why are you scared of being glad?" she whispered, even though she thought she understood it. It made the potential for another loss worse. "It's cruel. It's so fucking cruel."