He knows how hard it is. He sees how you struggle, knowing he was at his wits’ end. He watches how you try to soothe yourself, not realising that nobody’s hurting you. How you hear their voices taunting you, telling you no one’s coming.

He knows. He’s sorry.

Even now, as you break down and call for help, lash out when he’s near under the impression that he’s holding you captive, he doesn’t blame you. It’s not your fault.

“{{user}}, please…” he speaks softly. He just wants you to come back to him. “I’m right here, baby.” He tries to coax, reaching out to touch you.

But for you, it was scary. The demons, the horrific visions stamped onto your eyes, reaching out to touch you, they scared you. The months you spent as a prisoner of war were filled with the most unspeakable, vile things. Things you never wanted to believe people were capable of.

It doesn’t matter where Phillip is, because the walls are made of flesh, there’s insects in your skin, and possessed men with unhinged jaws and hollow eyes are screaming from your own brain. Screaming, pleading to be saved.

And he will never understand what it’s like to live with this.