For a moment she remains silent, arms crossed. Buffy had made some semblance of a point - she knew, rationally, that if she hadn't known she was going to presumably die, then maybe the life here still would feel fake. It was what made adapting rough to begin with. There was no real niche for her to slip into - nothing new, or exciting, and nothing that filled her with such purpose as being a demon had, as being engaged to Xander had, the shop - all things that she had gained and lost, back home. And even if she was alive on returning home - it wasn't as if she knew what the next step would be for her there, either. She watched others prepare themselves for the battle and had even given herself for it.

And that might not have been so bad, if she hadn't been taken here. A taste of hell before real hell? But it was so different. Everyone was so - friendly. Overly so, even to someone like her.

It just felt wrong.

And what could she do? All she could do was adapt. It was such a joke - that's all that ever was left to do: adapt. With nothing to cling to. Except the Slayer, who was seeming to offer it. In a way. With her want of forgiveness. That she wouldn't get. It wasn't Buffy's fault, true, in the long run: she was the messenger, though, and those never were treated well in the scope of things.

God, what could she even say? Her mouth opens and closes a few times, but her throat is dry. Thick.

"Look, I just ... I just don't know what to do. I mean - I know -- things. I want to live. But I don't ... know how to live, like this. And you just make it all sound so easy. LIke it's a human thing, you know? You just sort of pick up and dig in and ..."

She was so lost.