Something small and fragile in him seems to wrench at the sickening parallel between not-reality and memory, the defeated crack in the words as Jay sinks to the ground in a prolonged slide. He crouches beside him, certain that the hollow, vivid unhappiness is plain on every line of his face.

"It might feel like it's not worth it," he murmurs, "but you're still here because some part of you wouldn't believe that."

It might be that's a lie. He has no proof of it, short of the ideology of Ascension, which may or may not be applicable in this situation at all.

It might be it's not a lie if he believes it.