"I don't know if I'm getting better." That's the sad truth of it. They're not sure if there's a beter for them. It doesn't feel like it, most days. The kind of desperate haze of optimism they once clung to has faded to shreds, to torn-through tatters, like a dusty curtain letting in too many fingers of sun.

"I don't know if I ever was. I've learned to stop thinking about things sometimes, but that doesn't really make them go away. It just means they come back later."

Like now. It doesn't fix them. It doesn't make them better.

It just separates them, isolates them. Becomes another bad, dirty thing that they shouldn't be turning over and over in their head, so they sequester it, pile it under the proverbial bed, and stop thinking about it. Just stop thinking about it.

"I think..." No. They have to say this right, this time. Stop being so stupid that they can't string the words together in the right way. "I think it...it really could have been anyone. If I'd dressed up as anyone else, it would be...some fake person. Something that had all those pieces pulled out and stretched and, and - 's like the, it's the funhouse mirror. I'm not good at..."

They don't have the words for it. They're not making any sense. Just shut up, Frisk.