"I'll go," she says quietly, her voice not at all firm. "I'll just--"

She turns and she goes, even though it feels like she's tearing herself into pieces. It almost fleeing, somewhere between a walk and a run. It's quite a disaster, really. All of it. Her fingers grip the edge of the door, though, just for a moment. Just the lightest pause where her shoulders tighten as if she's about to go back. Her breath is uneven, but she forces herself out onto the street.

There's a crash too as the mug shatters onto the pavement, the scrape of it as she gathers it up.

She has to go home now, to tell Eight, and she know she's not going to make it through that without falling to pieces. Like the mug.