Fidget fidget. Her eyes track the fidgeting and, shyly, she goes to tip still somewhat warm tea into one of the mismatched cups she set out. She finds it at least gives her something to hold, and maybe that's true of everyone. It's set in front of him, before her hands retreat back into her own space. "It's funny, people sometimes ask me that," she says, not really looking at him as she speaks. "'Is it real', I mean. It's confusing to me. It's something that happens, like a-- like a disease, or." No, that's not very pleasant. She winces, tries again; "A feeling. A thought.

"I don't know what 'unreal' is supposed to be if it's something that happens. You've had dreams like that before. The..." Her forehead wrinkles, briefly, unsure what to call it, dream-like abstractions always harder to grapple with when she wakes up. "The shape," she says, finally, feeling a little silly for it.

Her blunt fingernails tap against the edge of her cup. "It was foreign, I think. We all have conflicts and nightmares, but it waged war on you. Or... I don't know. I guess not war." No more than storms are war on the sky, or black holes are war on space. She lifts her tea to sip, glancing at him over the top of it. "But it was exceedingly not nice."