[Tifa's fingers curl around the edges of her chair, nails digging into the polished wood while she continues to listen, and she feels sick to her stomach. What she had originally thought—no, hoped was the truth continues to crumble. The things she could convince herself were the reasons behind their contradicting timelines and memories were becoming further and further away from her.
The way that he lets that one thought hang doesn't make her feel any better, either, and Tifa's gaze darkens a touch when he moves past it.]
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The way that he lets that one thought hang doesn't make her feel any better, either, and Tifa's gaze darkens a touch when he moves past it.]
... After what?