"I don't know, okay!" It finally bursts loose, breathless, and he pulls away to guilt already flushing the tips of his ears. Something stings in his chest, not pride alone. "I don't know, but I'm trying."

One of us should be. Why not go back? Are you really so much better than us?

He presses one wrapped palm to his forehead, watches the door.

"It's just your hand," He says, at last, because saying anything else would be insane. "It's not the same thing."

But he's looking to the entry, and not her.