Phil shrinks in on himself then. He--should. Say something. Be honest. But God, look at Cassandra, both so young and so god damn weary already, but, but--silence like this never helped anyone. Not ever. But there has to be someone else he can talk to. Who? Who?

(Fucking look at him. It's pathetic. He's supposed to be the adult in the room and he can't even manage that with a century and change on her. What was the point of any of his "self-improvement" then?)

His breath seizes. Phil's expression collapses into some kind of horror; he turns away, banging his head into the wall and pressing his hands over his face.