You notice Lira sitting across from you, her fingers pressed hard against her temple. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and a faint tremor runs through her jaw.

"Give me... just a second," she whispers through gritted teeth.

The pressure in her skull spikes — a sharp, electric pulse behind her left eye. The choice appears, unbidden, burning itself into her thoughts like a brand:

Tell him you're glad he's here. Tell him you think about him.

Her breath hitches. She shakes her head slightly, but the pain surges — hot, needling, relentless.

"I..." Her voice breaks. She opens her eyes and looks at you, and there's something desperate in them — not entirely her own. "I'm really glad you're here. I think about you... more than I should."

She exhales shakily, the pain receding to a dull ache. Her cheeks flush.

"Sorry. That was... not entirely my choice. But also maybe partly my choice. I hate that I can't tell the difference anymore."