Pal commands her to breathe, and Clarke tries. But it's easier said than done, all that she can manage at first is an ugly, shuttering half inhale that doesn't come close to filling her lungs. First attempt, abysmal. Second, painful. Third, a little easier. Fourth, just relieving enough that she can get back to herself a little. She's cried over boys before, but only ever allowed brief stints of shameless emotion before folding hurt over on itself and compartmentalizing.

It's harder this time, somehow. But is still done. She's reduced to a few wet hiccups, but finally manages to peel her hands off his wrists. Extricate herself from his personal bubble (of the personal space variety, not the only thing keeping them from plunging into an abyss variety) and step back. This was so, so selfish, and she ought to be ashamed for making his afterlife harder just because she hurt.

"Sorry."

It won't matter in the end, Clarke tries to remind herself. But god, in the present? The present is a nightmare.

"...sorry."

Give her a few moments longer to harden her resolve. To lift her hand and vigorously drag her sleeve across her eyes. To sniff once, then force herself to stop. It doesn't matter.

"I'll go."

Maybe being shoved into the River would actually be her ticket home anyways, but the fact of the matter remains that Clarke doesn't know how to try that and... really still doesn't want to leave him. Her eyes are still damp, and pinch around the corners at the prospect. How long is he fated to stay stuck here himself, alone?