"I'm—" the sound aborts in the back of her throat. Who even is she, anymore? Does she even know? Does she even know who she wants to be? "I— I don't know. I don't know who I am, I don't know— I don't know."

She knows who she isn't. She knows she's not the little girl North still loves, comparatively innocent and still wronged by the world more than she'd wronged it. She knows she's not the South that betrayed her brother and left him to die, who shot Washington in the back and bargained with a monster.

But she doesn't know who she is. She's changing too much too fast and she can't get a grasp on it.

"I always— I always thought I wanted to be— be free of him. So I could be me. But then I lose him and I don't even know who me is."