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That’s her, always too much. That’s what he’d said that night, while she’d stared off into the milky air and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to pull herself in further, condense herself into smaller space. Too much, always too much. He’d fumbled to explain, to file down the hurt with piles of useless, unheard words. They’d heaped around her for a few minutes before misting away to join the fog. It’d be too big of a risk, too much to lose, too much pressure. She meant so much to him, he couldn’t bear to lose her, he didn’t want things to change. But she’d gotten the message, the real one he’d tried to bury. It was her, always too much.