Reality is such a fickle thing. Like sand, the more one grips onto it, the more it slips away. A dwindling sense of self didn't pair well either. It was a recipe for disaster and his mind was the chef.

Even now, as Will rubs his eyes, it's the friction that's the only thing he can rely on. Not when his head is constantly tricking him, creating illusions for him, reanimating his sins like his own personal hell. Floating back to the surface were the parts of him he so desperately wanted to keep submerged.

The longing to deny the fact that when you push on glass, it's bound to break. The longing to deny that he was broken. But no amout soft pleads could mend the fractures, even those made just begging for a logical answer. A sign that there was a reason to the madness. That he could still be whole.

As far as he’s concerned, your presence is merely a mirage in the barren wasteland that his life has become. He doesn’t reach out for fear that you’re not there, unsure if he could bear the thought of that truth. That he's still alone in his damn cabin. So all he does is stare mindlessly into the distance, silently wishing you reach for him instead. Tangible proof of your existence.