[for a moment, white grits his teeth, before, his voice low,]

You don't get to decide that for me.

[enough people have tried to tell white what to do or how to feel. he's lied to himself all his life, settled for whatever mentality kept him sane, with the only constant being his desire to live. (but even that, sometimes, is its own illusion. because his obsession with survival is a two-sided coin, and on the other side—the one that he can only voice in his dreams—is that on some days, he cannot see a reason to go on.)

but what he lived for, whether towards the end of his life or here, is the people he cares about.

so while there's still so much he's keeping at bay, the determination that burns from him is genuine.]

Yeah, you're a fucking mess. So am I. Just—don't. Don't—

[don't what? white doesn't know how he was going to finish that sentence.

don't run away, however hypocritically, when white himself feels like doing just that.

don't make me lose you, maybe.

...

then again, it's not as if he's ever been able to hold onto anything. and so, he lets go.]

... If you want to go, then go.