She didn’t answer him. She didn’t have to. The sun was slowly setting outside, the dying light turning a dusky amber through the thick curtains. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes then falling upon Jacques’ own, revelling in their intensity, shivering at the sincerity of his words, dreading the reality of what they meant. She couldn’t love him in return, no matter how much she wanted to. It would be too painful to explain why no changeling truly could. But the idea that he somehow knew this, or otherwise expected the brevity of their time together… She didn’t know how to feel about that. She didn’t know, could not know, how to deal with this, to know how to deal with somepony who she could not look upon as food no matter how hard she tried. Here he was, as open to her as any book, and still he confounded her, wrapped up in his loving embrace and giving his very heart to her, for however long she needed it.