[ He heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the entire world has fallen upon them. Despite how likely he is to fall over without the support of the wall propping him up, his gaze is steady, his eyes boring into Enjolras’. ]

Sometimes I wish they were here for myself, because I long for their company. I want to listen to familiar conversations and gaze upon familiar faces. Other times, I wish they were here for you. They believe in the things I don’t. They could be of help you. You do everything alone. You shouldn’t.

[ He’s noticed. There’s no way he hasn’t, but he doesn’t know how he can help. He doesn’t believe in the things Enjolras believes in, and he can’t force himself to believe in them. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be of use—he does, desperately, but something in him always hits a roadblock. That’s when he just stops trying and starts drinking instead. ]

And other times still, I wish they wouldn’t wake at all. If they never wake, I tell myself, then they never need to learn the truth. They never need to know what happened to home and they never need to see how much uglier the world has become. The thought of them does not motivate me. It only burdens me.

[ It’s the sad truth. If they were to wake, he might be pleased in one moment and upset in another. His mind works in such a twisted fashion, it would take an expert to explain why he thinks the way he does.

In a rare display of bluntness, he speaks honestly: ]

I don’t know what might motivate me.