"I don't understand how." It's barely more than a whisper-- like if she's too loud she's going to wake up and none of it will be true; Mulder will still be gone, and she'll be alone, without even a piece of him to hang onto.

"That's why I was sick-- before you left. You were already-- gone." Taken. Lost. "By the time I got the results."

By now, tears are streaming down her face. It's not worth trying to hold it back; she sniffles, lifts the back of her hand to scrub at her face.

"How could there be anyone else?" Even the idea of it is too terrible to consider.