Once she's finished with that sip she passes the bottle back to him in case he wants it again. That was probably the worse of it, she thinks; surely anything else she would tell him wouldn't make her want to drown herself in that bottle. She did for a good year after he was gone. Surely the sting of his loss has lessened by now. Surely the bitterness of his abandonment has been subdued.

She has to be better now than she was then, because if she's not then it means she'd never get over it.

Nill shakes her head, though her expression is thoughtful as she writes.

I loved him and he loved me, but it wasn't like that.
I would have done anything for him.
he would have done anything for me.

Her fingers curl around the napkin a little at that spot, the anger rising like bile in her chest for one awful moment; anything but stay, apparently. She smooths the napkin out again after she pushes down the vitriol in her veins, feels the vice around her lungs loosen. She only blames him for leaving her behind on bad days. Today is not a good one.

I don't know the right words.

She rather pointedly doesn't address his apology, or his claim to her strength. It's an obvious disagreement, but hopefully not one that he'll try to argue; in Nill's mind nothing will ever excuse the way she let his memory kill her.