Marco's Heart

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:
A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.
It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

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For a moment, he seems to be at a loss for words. His head sinks between his knees again, fingers fidgeting aimlessly.
"You're a good person. You've grown, you know. You've become a good person."
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"Since you pretended to shoot me."
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The smile fades. Marco's shoulders slump, though the rest of him remains tense.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
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[She has no idea how or why she changed and she feels so estranged from her past self it hardly feels like growth at all.]
...We're... not going to get anywhere just talking like this, are we?
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Does that answer the question, by any chance?
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