You shouldn't be alone, Miss Pascal. [And for what it's worth -- and he's staring at his feet when he says this -- ] I'm . . . I'm sorry for the discouraging remarks I made that day.
[There's a long pause. There's a shuffling from inside, followed by the clunk-click of the door's lock. The door opens a crack, revealing a strange creature in a duvet cocoon, with Pascal's face barely visible through a tiny gap.]
[That duvet cocoon . . . For that brief moment, he loses all his words from the glee of getting her to open up the door (even if only barely) and the sudden pressure of being face to face. Um, um -- ]
[Oh. He can't reach her. Closing the journal, he heads to her room. Before he considers knocking, he calls:]
Miss Pascal?
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[Where else would she be? He pauses, then tries another approach.]
Are you okay?
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... you mean it?
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Y-yes.
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... it... doesn't matter anyway. You were right after all.
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We should be the ones feeling awful for our inconsideration. Please, don't keep yourself locked in anymore.
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