Shaken out of her retorts (so pitiful now, like offering up spite itself as tribute), Nozomi's mind is wiped clear of coherent thought where the tips of her robes have been snared. They dig further with the slightest urging, threaten to puncture clean through — and still, Nozomi can't react much until she's loosened out of the choking hold. All at once, her grip loosens, the orb hanging by just her fingertips, waiting to be plucked up by something so benign as a stray breeze.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want anything much." Her voice is filmy, distant, petering out. Absentmindedly, Nozomi blinks down at her feet, waiting for her knees to give out and crumple beneath her, and yet — she holds on and on in compromise, unwilling to bend. Her posture has slipped from an open taunt to something unthreatening, guilt devouring whatever retaliation she might've had left.

"I thought we could've been friends, maybe. That's all. I didn't know how to get close to you otherwise."