She puts her face in her hands, curled up a little. The notion of no Mitchell is terrible. She loves him, she loves him still. It's impossible to stop her heart from wanting him. She reaches for his cigarette, to put it out, considers tears, but doesn't cry. For once, she doesn't cry.

She reaches for his hand. "Being dead isn't brilliant, it isn't an out, Mitchell. It's just-" she goes quiet. "It's just this," she finishes, as if it's just her.