She'd run from them the last time she'd felt like this. Now she's frozen in place, her legs refusing to obey her after the amount of physical and emotional stress she's placed upon her body in such a short time. Kylo's hand on her shoulder is an anchor, something present for her to turn her awareness to while she fights to catch her breath. She swipes fruitlessly at her eyes, trying to contain the tears that result from the painful laugh-sobs that won't be quieted.

Vader's voice reaches her a moment later, and the fact that she's able to listen, to center herself a little, to draw even a little bit of comfort from that light touch of cool metal -- it's almost enough to tip her back into that hysterical place before she's even out of it. She obeys him anyway, forcing her breath into a more natural rhythm until she's no longer at risk of simply passing out -- much as the idea was tempting in its own way.

He's your grandfather.

They were filthy junk traders who sold you for drinking money.

When she's able to focus, her gaze lands upon Kylo, full of accusation.

"You -- you said. You let me think they were nobody."

She'd been the one to say it, but he'd confirmed it. He hadn't been lying then; she was sure of it. It had felt true. This feels true. It's too much to wrap her head around at once.