The thin shell of derisive humor that protects the last threads of his stability butts up against Cassandra’s desperation, jagged and painful and so so raw. Does she remember? Can she? Even in the midst of—this, all of this, the dance that Phil dances is colored with a sense of endurance and grim confidence though the song has changed, but Cassandra is new to it, on top of the repetition of the worst instance of her life. Maybe she doesn’t remember that they have another shot, but even if she did, who could fault her for breaking anyway? Look at where they’ve ended up.

But if he knows anything about a cycle, it’s that it doesn’t give you a choice. Time whispers, do it again.

”Hey, hey, hey, shhh,” he whispers back, inching closer, trying not to grit his teeth. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry, it’s my fault—but we’re not done here, okay? It’s not over.”