"You about done?" Chuck asks when they're alone, and she squares off proudly: "No!" He asks what she's doing, even though he knows, because he did the same thing after Bart. "Trying to destroy the old you, burn every bridge?" She grins. "It won't help. Believe me, I've tried." Awesomely, B stomps away, laughing that she should just climb on the roof to make it more dramatic, and he stops her. "This isn't you," he says, protesting that he knows her better than himself. "Oh, right," she says, slowing down and staring him in the eye like a snake. "You can see right through me." She leans in, not exactly lying and not exactly telling the truth, wielding it like a knife: "Can't you, Chuck? Right to my core." Which is why he has to go down, right now. She shoves him against the wall.

"Do you remember the first time you saw the real me? The Blair that danced for you that night at Victrola?" She puts his hands on her, but it's an accusation, too: that's when it changed, that's when she found out how free she really was, and made love with him in the limo. Maybe that was when it changed, she thinks, and things started falling apart. "The Blair with none of the hang-ups, none of the frustrations? That's the Blair right here." This is what you made me, she's saying.

Remember that seagull you shot? A man comes along, sees her, and destroys her life because he has nothing better to do...

She bites her lip, kissing him softly. "Take me. Now." He leans away to ask her why, but she's blurring underneath his hands, changing too fast to see properly. "To prove that nothing matters."

Hating it, he breaks the kiss and stares at her. "This isn't you. It's not the Blair I want." She nods: just as she suspected, always. She crossed the bridge to him, and he doesn't want it anymore. "That's right. And I never will be again." She gazes sadly at his mouth, and walks away. His breath is harsh as he leans against the wall, and she says goodbye. "The danger with calling someone's bluff is that even if you win, you risk them walking away from the table for good. And who wants to play with themselves?"

Nate finds Miss Waldorf in a closed-in porch, surrounded by the obsolete and broken. When he asks her what she's doing out there, she honestly doesn't know. He drapes his jacket over her shoulders, and stands quietly until she speaks, already calmed by his presence. "Do you remember the first time you brought me here? When we first started dating?" They were twelve or thirteen, he remembers. They spoke endlessly about their future, how perfect it would all be. He remembers, he's happy to remember. Her face twists, sad and appalled. "What happened? When did.... Everything get so screwed up? This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't know who I am anymore. What I'm supposed to do." He nods; he supplies the word for them both. "Lost."