Relapsing seemed so far away just a month ago--a thing of the past, you weren't caught up on your own self-inflicted scars. You often forgot they were ever there, and when you remembered you didn't dwell. They were just part of your story, as Optimus reminded you one of the first times you were left alone with him in privacy. Now, the idea had jammed itself into your very being once more, the thought unable to be pushed away for more than a fleeting moment. Alone, or with company, the idea swarmed like locusts in a field (or insecticons for that matter)--how badly you itched to just make yourself hurt all over again. That dark look framed your face; you had everyone on edge, and no one knew just what the deal was nor how to approach it. Only Optimus knew, as he knew almost everything. He knew you more than any other member of the Autobots--closer to you than any other being, dead or alive. "Your digits are twitching; what's on your mind?" was the way he presented the conversation to you, not demanding, not implying anything for certain--letting you speak and reveal how much or how little you wished. His voice was always so deep, and so gentle--lulling you out of your head for just that moment. He stood over you as you sat idly in the base, hunched over yourself, as if willing yourself to disappear. You looked so small in that moment, his optics so attentive as he seemingly read your every thought, even the ones you hadn't conjured yet.