[ No, no — she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want the words. Because the words make it real somehow, and she just... She can't —

Her pulse is throbbing. Her lungs feel too tight. ]

You don't know what you're saying.

[ It's a ragged whisper, dragged free from her throat — gaining momentum as she grasps for any feeling that isn't that knot in her gut, twisting tight at the thought of loving and being loved back. ]

You don't know what the fuck you're talking about — [ There's a crack in her voice as she pulls back, opening space up between them as if she can't bear to be close anymore. ] Fuck you for saying it! Fuck you, Poe Dameron — [ She isn't ready to face this right now. She hadn't meant for this to happen. She hadn't meant to want the words or to want to say them back. ] I don't love him. And I don't love you.

[ It's a lie, and they both know it's a lie. If it wasn't a lie, she wouldn't say it with such desperate anger. Not Andy — Andy, who would placidly smoke a cigarette in the face of death. It's a lie bred of fear and longing, and not more convincing for the way she fails to meet his eyes as she says it. ]