Her breathing is ragged, now, with realization--like it physically hurts, which rapidly transcends 'like' and becomes a reality when the pressure builds at her temples. Leila makes a sound a little like a pained keen, the ghost of it, and touches a hand to her head, eyes closing, and she moves forward, against his shoulder. Her feet feel unsteady beneath her, and she is struggling to push back the flood of what she can't know, not without taking steps first. Unlike the Verbena, she's not granted with this knowledge.

"Then I guess you don't hate me at all, do you?" She hisses when the pressure changes, shifting, and hopes that constitutes progress. "What is this--"