"I love you." That's what he was saying the whole time. As he tried to hold back the tears, as he assured her that they were doing everything they could to get her out. He was saying what he couldn't say, what they'd never been good at telling each other. And it hurt. It hurt so much to see him hurting; to see him and not be able to comfort him, to touch him.
"I love you too, Michael," was all that she could give him. He's asking if she remembers the day they met, he's Michael McBride, in voice and memory. Yes, yes she does. As if she weren't crying enough already. It's so easy to follow him back into that memory, to fall back on her native tongue, the lilting cadences of her roots. But it doesn't last. It can't. Time is up. Perhaps their time was actually up years ago and they'd been running on borrowed moments ever since.
As the guard leads her away she does what she couldn't the day she turned herself in; she looks back. What she sees only makes the tears come harder; she meets Michael's eyes and watches as, phone limp in his hand, his lips form the words she so longs for. "I love you." Because this is harder than she thought. Because it's right, but so wrong. Because she did it for him, yet it hurts them both. Because, oh god, she loves him.