"... hey. You doing that... um... thing...? Again?" Water Wiggler places his hand against the wall, his other arm wrapping around his waist for comfort. You give no response, you never do anymore, so he continues, forcing his voice to steady as he speaks. It smells like gore and blood and decay near your room, and it's hard not to feel nauseous. He fights back the urge to gag every time he opens his mouth.

"I know it's been, um... difficult for you, ever since Milk Bone..." He pauses, the thought of what happened not easy for him to digest either. He can hear you moving and shifting from the other side of the wall, not in response to his words, but no doubt working on your... 'art.' "It wasn't your fault." He gulps, more uneasy the longer he stands there. He doesn't like seeing you like this.

"Please come out of there. You're sick. You need rest. I just... I don't understand what you're doing. Your obsession with this guy is getting worse. You barely knew him." You've been acting... different the past month and a half, full on obssesed with that guy you and Water Wiggler had kicked from your group all those weeks ago. The only thing he can conclude is that you're sick, but... with what? Mania? Psychosis? Something entirely different? It's not like you're infected, you can't be, it's not possible.

So... what?

"Atleast let me wash your face." He cringes at the thought of what you look like now, your face mutilated by your own hands from the constant peeling and picking at your skin, utilising the blood to make a kind of mural of... well, him. Your muse. You barely even look like yourself anymore, eyes blown out wide constantly and blood covering your body. It's horrifying. He doesn't know what to do.