Rubbing her tears away feels like a fruitless attempt. Whenever she blinks or focuses on him, they return, warm as they slip down her cheeks. She feels so pathetically weak; it makes the aching pain deep within her chest feel ten times worse. This wasn't how she wanted this interaction to go — to stand crying in front of Stephen Strange in the middle of the library. Thankfully they are secluded enough that no one else has seemed to notice.

The last thing she wants is his pity or his words. Even if he means it, they feel hollow and do nothing to fill the void that threatens to tear her apart. If he were truly sorry, he would have helped her instead of letting her loneliness and desolation fester to the point she became the monster everyone thought she was.

No — it isn't his fault, and she shouldn't direct her unfettered emotions at him. After all, she is the one who decided to seclude herself away and isolate herself from the few remaining friends she had. If only she had reached out to let them know she was struggling, maybe — maybe all of this could have been prevented. But it's too late now, and she has to live with the consequences of her actions.

Scrubbing away her tears again, Wanda focuses on him. Green eyes rimmed with red, nose red, and lips swollen from the rush of blood to her face. Her gaze shifts away from his face, lingering on the scarred hand outstretched towards her. Truce. A ceasefire. Maybe even a friend again with time.

She reaches out, hesitating as she grabs his hand and curls her fingers around it. The pad of her thumb smooths over the back of his hand.

"I know," she says finally, "and I don't want to spend my time worrying and looking around every corner either."