[ Joan lifts a hand when John says us like she's about to try to brush the concept of us aside. But she pauses cause that's not entirely true. There was an us the moment she stepped on that train and accepted an empty seat from a tired looking man with a red cross on his bag. The moment she asked him about surgical tools or that he brought her a pair of shoes. (No, arguably there was an us the moment she woke up in this place. Realizing it was just a matter of time.)

Rather than use the hand that she'd lifted to brush through the air, Joan places on the table between them like a card player revealing her hand. ] I'm going to be honest with you, John, I like you. You're a nice guy, you've got your head on straight and as far as I can tell you're a great doctor. [ Joan pauses and half-groans, looking up at the ceiling. ] All of which sounds so incredibly narcissistic, given the circumstances, but—

[ She fixes him with a look. This entire exercise is strange. Strange and weird. ] —but I don't want things to be awkward between us just because we're — us. I mean, you're you and I'm me and— [ Argh. ]

Is any of this making sense?