[ That, the reasonable sentence that Ben speaks, is what pulls Will out of the realistic fantasy of imagining what the world might want, and what Will wants from the world, all under the rose-colored glasses of that other intelligence. Instead Will sees this for what it is, un-romanticized: two men declaring that they're lonely and would like to touch the needy, broken mirror separating them.

Embarrassed self-awareness makes Will feel abruptly off-balance, unwanted, except that that reflex has nowhere to truly go. This world - or perhaps it's just Ben, or both - cuts it off like a nerve block. Will's wearing his glasses right now, but he's not trying to avoid real eye contact.

Even though he hears that insinuation, loud and clear. It aches.

Something back home wasn't working. But this place - might. Is that delusional? Will tries, unsuccessfully, to separate the webbed networking of his own thoughts and others'. He stares back at Ben with eyes that go momentarily glossy. ] I don't know if it's...capable of it or not, or why it would try, but...

[ Will shuffles closer, stomach bumping against the sink planted in front of his mirror. ] I think it might be. And...

[ Will looks down at their hands. Flexes his fingers and then relaxes them. Are the shattered pieces of the mirror growing...smaller? As he looks back up at Ben, feeling raw: ] ...I think it might be succeeding.