[her question almost doesn't register. mouth hangs open, expression forming a delayed response (brows slowly knitting together, eyes wide, then narrow). he doesn't think of that night fondly. sometimes he doesn't even think that he was present for it. he remembers laying there, staring at the rotting wood of the cabin while jackie's voice became a monotonous sound he had to tune into. she'd said that none of it mattered, maybe something else. her words were knives in his heart.]

--What? Hey, are you okay?

[her hand on his shoulder brings him back, unnaturally warm skin against skin. he hesitates when he reaches out to help steady her, one hand at her waist. is she nauseous, or something else? he doesn't know if she knows what she's asking him. they all knew her obsession with jackie had been ... well, no one really blamed her. he didn't. he thought it was twisted, but that was grief. she never tried to hurt him after that.]

I...don't know, I was high. I don't think [he was there] I want to talk about that with you. Or anyone, honestly. That night was, uh, it was a lot. I think you should let that go.

[he's trying to.]