[He doesn't really know what to say. His voice has grown weary, small even, in tandem with the sorrow he feels hanging heavy in the air between them. Those shields are worrisome alone, but every revelation only seems to be worse than the last.
In truth, what can he even say? To deny it is foolhardy: it isn't his truth to erase, nor his experience to secondhandedly demean. To continue to press upon the "well I'd never" only seems tone deaf and born out of a desperation to save face for--granted--something he doesn't rightly remember. If he'd been in a facsimile of her place, would he have accepted the same plea from his own parents? Not likely. In the end, this isn't really about him, but what Jean feels.
And that is where he finally settles.]
I can't imagine what that feels like.
[Well, he can. He's not a stranger to loss. But that isn't the point.]
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[He doesn't really know what to say. His voice has grown weary, small even, in tandem with the sorrow he feels hanging heavy in the air between them. Those shields are worrisome alone, but every revelation only seems to be worse than the last.
In truth, what can he even say? To deny it is foolhardy: it isn't his truth to erase, nor his experience to secondhandedly demean. To continue to press upon the "well I'd never" only seems tone deaf and born out of a desperation to save face for--granted--something he doesn't rightly remember. If he'd been in a facsimile of her place, would he have accepted the same plea from his own parents? Not likely. In the end, this isn't really about him, but what Jean feels.
And that is where he finally settles.]
I can't imagine what that feels like.
[Well, he can. He's not a stranger to loss. But that isn't the point.]