"But Buffy Summers and what people think about her isn't the point."

It was her best recourse to avoid discussing herself in this manner. She was not too interested in dredging up reasons why someone should or shouldn't be proud of a Slayer simply working the job. Because sometimes that job asked her to pass judgement on people she loved so dearly that it hurt to considering judging them at all. And Jack had been devilishly honest -- he'd given her no strip of hope that he might have been otherwise non compos mentis at the time.

There's nothing wrong with being happy here. Katara's words, unknowingly echoing so many others. Giles. Herself, when talking to others. But Buffy often failed to take her own advice.

Love also wasn't in the grand gestures. It wasn't in the ink or the jewellery. It was in the work: the twisted foil and the curries and a pretty little learner's boat without a name. It was in this treehouse and in the dedicated hours spent searching for safety between its four simple walls. Love didn't have to forget but it could, at least, forgive.

Or it could start forgiving.

"...Where are you?" She asked the shadows.