“I’m okay.”
The problem with a man like Zy was that after an entire lifetime of convincing saying he was perpetually okay—no matter the agony, the hurt, the drama and its trauma—he had himself fooled. Zy has convinced himself that to feel unwell in any sense was his norm. —
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— What did it matter to say otherwise? All it did was serve to worry the scant few who ever gave a fuck about him. For all the rest, asking about his wellbeing was just a formality. Reine was not a formality, but Zy’s answer remained. —
