And she's been at it on her end, all the while. It's impossible to gauge any effectiveness from her end, the way he's at it, but she needs to do something and those cries cannot be the only sound, so there's not any other option. No grand promises, nothing by way of specificity, but reassurances, persistent comforting, an insistence that he is still good. It would be a lie to say his finally hitting a dead end wasn't a little relieving. One wave down. The first, the brunt. Passing.

She touches his wrist, briefly. It doesn't linger, it doesn't clasp, but a pronounced brush. What little physical means she has of reminding him she's still there. That there is indeed a physical world around him, beyond whatever mess he feels stuck with in his head.

"You're alright." Latest of many of this assertion. "Deep breaths now, okay? Deep, hold it for a second, and exhale slow. One at a time. You can get better, and you're going to - you already have, so, so much. None of that can touch you now. You're safe, with people who know your worth, and we have time to get through this. Is there anything I can do, right now?"