There are things that S knows he'll never understand, not entirely. Whatever goes on in J's head that makes him think the way he does sometimes — what J's dubbed the voice — is among them. It has seemed to help J, though, to describe it as such, and S knows what he's referring to, and those two things are all that really matter. As much as he doesn't want or know how to say it outright, it really is touching, too, the implicit acknowledgment that he might have things he needs to get out of his head as well. Actually talking to each other about things they're dealing with is something he thinks they've both worked on a lot over this past year, but there are still things S doesn't feel like he can touch, burdens he wouldn't want to lay on J's shoulders. Granted, none of it is anything he's really sure of what to do with for himself, either, better kept buried, left untouched. He doesn't have the first idea how he would begin to write about any of it, but it couldn't hurt to at least try, and it's a nice gesture.

"I think you've kept a journal for as long as I've known you," he says, nose scrunching slightly as he smiles. "If it helps you, maybe it would help me, too." He doesn't want to ignore what J has said, after all; he also doesn't want to make too much of it, especially not now. The package J is opening is the photo paper, he thinks — another gift that probably isn't very exciting, but necessary, nothing that a camera would be much good without. Not one like this, anyway. "Ah, this one isn't much."