The first thing that Sookie focuses on is the heat of Derek's body as he wraps his arms around her, slightly warmer than most others she's fallen into embraces with — and that, more than anything else, has been the detail that Sookie has come to associate with life over the past several months. Derek's here, he's solid and present and alive; it becomes at once a comfort and a chilling reminder of those she can't lean on like this anymore.

When she cries, she feels small, like that same child who lingered by the front door of her house ever morning after her parents passed away. Some people might say that repeating oneself while expecting a different result is a sign of insanity, but for Sookie, it's always been a sign of childish innocence peeking through. She reverts. She's that same little girl who thought that crying would make everyone hand things over to her. Her future. Her dreams. Her family.

But it doesn't work like that.

"I'm sorry," she says, more of a wheeze than audible words. And in that moment, it isn't about feeling sorry for Derek or herself — instead, it's the melding of grief into one terrible storm.

The worst thing is that she knows she'll survive it.

"I'm sorry that Stiles is gone. I wish — I wish they'd all come back."