"No," she said, flushed deeply pink, not just from embarrassment, "it's not you." She brought both of her hands up, to her face, not quite covering it, but pressing her fingertips hard against her temple, her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she panted, breath still wild, "i-it's not-"

This is why I don't explain things. Well, that's not true. Typically, I don't explain things because I don't need to, it serves no purpose. Apparently, now, I don't explain things because I'm really fucking bad at it.