[He closes his eyes again. Rests his forehead on his knees. And rocks back and forth just a little, because it's instinctively soothing in a way he doesn't understand. (He was never rocked. He was never held.) He doesn't look at James. He doesn't, can't.]

Not in person. But I did. Speak to her. She said it wasn't about me - who I am, who I remind her of. But she's lying.

[The memory is resonant in his mind. It stings him: the similarities between himself and Damon, the painful selfishness on Damon's face that he's seen in the mirror. Anything, anything at all, as long as it gets him what he wants. And then lying - for your own good. For your own fucking good, I deserve it.]

[He shudders.]

It was about me.