"I don't think I am, though," Adora replies, voice hoarse. She hears everything Saturday says, but she can't visualize it applying to her - because of course she has to pour out everything. She has to be perfect. She can't let people be hurt. She has to keep everyone else warm. Pouring everything she is and will be into others is the only way she knows how to exist. It's the only thing that makes sense. Because she feels so incredibly alone and small when she makes a mistake. When she can't save people. When she's not able to be there.

"I'm sorry, Saturday."