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Summary
They stare at each other for a moment, time splintering in pieces around them: a masterpiece waiting to paint itself, a train waiting to wreck itself. Asami is the one who’s dead, but Korra doesn’t think she’s ever felt this cold in her life.
“Don’t,” she chokes out. “Don’t talk to me. Not like this. Not when you’re...”
Silence, for a moment. Silence and shadows and shaky breaths. It hurts to look at Asami, and it hurts to look away.
“It’s still me,” Asami says at last, her voice bent around a note of desperation, and Korra thinks: No, it’s not.