The lingering white-knuckle tension fades when he takes her hands and she breathes, tries to focus on the familiar, grounding touch and not the horrific implications of everything he's said. Tries not to think about how much sense it makes, how she can understand so easily how this— other her could end up in such a state. How mad she's been driving herself trying to get Sam back even believing that he'd be right back in Celia's arms the moment they found him.

Imagining a world where Sam's just... gone, no take backs, nothing she can do...

"...she was all on her own. Wasn't she." No one left. Just her. Her and her dreams of a dead man. God.