"Fine," he says, which is such an obvious lie it's almost insulting. Of course he's miserable and terrified, of course he feels like shit, of course he would rather have stayed in his room feeling sick, trying not to throw up, realising he has a problem and digging through his drawers looking for any pills he might have stashed and forgotten about. He can play all he wants at pretending none of this ever happened, is happening, but he's always been a shit liar.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands now. His eyes - he's looking everywhere but at her - fall on the things on the counter, he could put that way. Be useful. Instead he feels nailed here. He doesn't even know what to say, except that apologising again is both inadequate and irritating. He's been lying to himself and everyone around him for so long - aware that other people have mostly been playing along, knowing he's been hiding something - that without being able to successfully hide behind a veneer of fineness has him at a total loss. He might as well be naked.

Take it one thing at a time, then. He stands up, wincing, his knees feel locked into position. The sun's streaming in through the closed window, bathing the whole room in a light so bright it washes everything out, it must be noon or early afternoon. That feels wrong. It ought to be raining or something. He wrings his hands, opens his mouth, closes it - he can't think of anything to say.