There's a distant awareness of someone else in the vicinity, which means he should probably do something about it. The shield of utter emptiness mantled over his features conceals the worst of it, but the occasional gap in the white noise allows a window to brows drawn tight, cheeks streaked and wet, shoulders trembling with the strain of suppressing something loud and heaving.

The words trickle out numbly, the movement of his jaw tired and mechanical.

"They could all be living normal lives, if it wasn't for me..."

It's his fault, he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Why didn't he take the out when Alex offered it to him?