"Three years," Meredith says, testing it out for him, and she can't imagine it. Her fingers move absently through his hair. She tries, whether out of empathy or masochism, tries to apply it to them and a lifetime without him, but it's overwhelming to think about still and she's too easily hurt tonight. She focuses on little things: his hands against her back, her own steady breathing, the past tense. "I don't know how you did it. I don't think I could."