Fuck.

Whatever it is he just remembered, whatever repressed memories he just unearthed for Tim's sake, it's not worth it. He looks - shaken. He looks like someone who has to affirm that the physical world still exists, and that he's a part of it. Who could blame him? The man died, for god's sake. He died, and now Tim's asking him to casually relive the precise moments of how it happened in excruciating detail, as if that wouldn't hit just as hard as whatever Tim can dredge of his time in Rosswood, in a windowless hospital room.

"Yeah," says Tim, slowly. "I'm still here. Jay, are you...?"

He's not okay.

He's not okay, and he should've gotten help months before this. Even now, is he remotely willing to admit that he still needs it? Death doesn't make something like that go away, does it? In theory, it's meant to, but no suicide hotline in existence bothers to elaborate on what happens once you die and then bother to come back.

"You're in Wonderland. Remember?" Talk slowly. Evenly. Pull the words out. "It's okay."

It's the furthest thing from okay.

And whose fault is that?