Clementine doesn't want him to hold it back. She wants him to feel safe enough to be exactly who he is with her even if who he is happens to be pieces- shattered pieces. She understands feeling that way, but that is not how she sees him. It never could be. He is Louis, and he matters to her, and he died. And she knows he won't let himself be otherwise. He is always too concerned with taking care of other people. She's taking care of him.

It is not his fault that she hurts. Hurting comes from caring, from loving (There was a time where she worried that made her weak, vulnerable, but she doesn't worry about that anymore). She loves him. It is worth it to hurt with him, to hurt at his loss, to hurt at seeing him hurt. It is so worth it to feel that instead of the emptiness of not caring, the recklessness of having nothing to lose.

She winds one arm around his back, and she holds the back of her head with her other arm, pulling him in close until his face is pressed against her. Her chin rests on top of his head.

And her heart aches at his every sob. The first one has her expression crumpling briefly before she takes in a deep breath and steadies herself. Her fingertips dig into his back as if to say fiercely that she won't let him be taken away like that again. Not ever.

(A promise, she knows, she can't keep).