[Ben breathes out. There is a comparison in his own past: the moment when his grip closes over tattooed skin, the vertebrae under his hand snap and he knows, without doubt, that he is not a mistake. That he is powerful, vindicated, protected. That She exists and She loves him. That moment that brings about the absolute, peaceful calm for days afterwards before the uncertainty begins crackling back in at the edges, each time driving the fracture closer and closer to who he is at his core.

The desperation to get back to that place, even knowing - because the madness is only madness through moments of sanity, he could not have the static without both - that it won't last. That there's something wrong.

There is no judgment in his voice, only calm reason.]

Abigail, the mask is not evidence if your victory. It belongs to someone else. It is temporary.

It can help, but it is not your solution.