( It's... weird, listening to someone else lay it all out like this. Something that touches upon pieces of his own feelings, his own situation, so closely. There was initially some kind of relief, and a curiosity that was just as desperate as it was tentative, but the more Peter listens to the young woman speak, the more something pushes tight and swollen up under his sternum.

Maybe because it is so personal, all of this. Maybe because of his state — dazed and loosened and a little sick from last night. Maybe because it aches to hear that someone else has gone through this. Maybe because he still isn't where she is with all of it, and he wishes he could be, could see it like that. Her words should give him some little dose of hope, and maybe on some level, they do. Later, when he's not rubbed raw, maybe he'll be able to see that. But right now something hitches in him harder, presses against the bruise too much; it hurts. His face is crumpling a little, enough to look upset. )

I feel like that now. Like... shit. All the time. Because I don't— I don't want this.

( The implications of her words are clear; 'ask me how I know'. She used to feel like that. She's tried to not feel like that. Found ways to have a better existence. And he's trying, and he does have good things, things to look forward to, somehow he has people he loves who loves him right back. But at the end of the day, he still can't look at himself in the mirror. )

I don't want to be like this. I feel like I'm fucking— trapped. Like everything I do, and everything I think about, is about... him. And it's never going to get any better. Because even if I can have my own life, he's there, and I didn't— I didn't want this.

( He pauses, something that feels self-conscious seeping in seconds too late, like he's said too much, and Peter reaches up to run his palm over his mouth. It's shaking, just a little. )

...Sorry.