John nods, a silent, subtle gesture, his gaze fixed on the table. Her quiet agreement doesn't sting the way one might expect it to. On the contrary, it's more of a relief. He doesn't want forgiveness or absolution, he doesn't want to be told that everything will be okay.

He doesn't know what he wants. He probably has no business wanting anything for the foreseeable.

But that isn't how this works, is it? They both know better. He lets out a faint, humorless huff of air, rotating his glass a few anxious degrees. "I don't know how to stop," tumbles out of him, furtive and tremulous. Then, with more forceful, bitter backing, "Suppose I... I-I've never had to try— I mean, really try." Not the way you have hangs there, unspoken.