You don’t really have anything besides being a slayerette; you go to school, and do your homework, and eat lunch with Kit only when Amanda is busy, because Kit likes to talk, likes to share, and there are things you just can’t say.

So you listen to Kit, and you comment on the sorry state of her love life, and when she asks about your own, your thoughts jump briefly to Justin, and you say, “Bad breakup. He left town really suddenly.”

And Kit makes sympathetic noises, and everything is exactly as it was: you’re still evading, and you’re still alone.

You walk home with Amanda every day, and she complains about Kennedy’s training regime, and you think about how after Buffy died, Spike tried to teach you to fight. You tell Amanda what she wants to hear: that Kennedy’s a bitch who needs to be taken down a few pegs.

You make lunch for the Potentials, and one of them uses your mother’s special-occasions-only china for her sandwich; you don’t say anything, but something must show because when you leave the kitchen, Buffy touches your shoulder, asks you if everything’s okay.

She looks so concerned, so loving, and two years worth of anger and resentment and grief bubbles up inside of you before you force it down. To be part of the slayer’s world means you have to be in control, and you aren’t about to let her push you away for being too immature.

You pull the smile over your face, and hope no-one can see what lies beneath.