Daisy draws in a shaky breath, one that quakes just as much when she releases it. She doesn't know how to do this; it's like forcing an atrophied muscle through the steps of rehabilitation even when it burns like nothing else. She doesn't know how people give their hearts out, how they can stand placing their still-beating bastions of weakness in another person's hands and not expect them to crush it right there in front of you, so you can watch the blood seep between their fingers.

Only once has she ever taken the chance. Basira had her heart in her pocket before Daisy ever told her it was there. It lived there, it went where she went, it thrummed and thrived... and then it drowned in Basira's blood as Jenny slit her throat. And then she was home and, like every other part of Daisy, it withered in the coffin and never truly recovered.

It still feels as if it's there, sometimes. Or as if Basira's hands are buried in her chest, cradling her heart where it mourns.

But then there have been other hands, too. Buried just as deep, as if seeking the soul that must be in there somewhere amidst the grime.

It feels like being torn apart. It feels like being reborn. It feels like dying a thousand different ways.

"I—" she chokes out, not even sure how long she's been silent. "I-I don't know— I-I don't know if I know how."