S's voice is so soft and he's so curled in on himself that it's muffled, but J is fairly certain all the same of what he says. Twice. He bites his lip hard, willing himself not to get overwhelmed by the fact that S knows precisely when, for J, everything is a contradictory whirl of bewilderment, very little left to his memory but the feeling of the moment.

"It looked like more," he mumbles, then swallows hard, tries to makes his throat feel a little less tight. In that instant, it seemed to him like he must have gone even madder than he'd thought. That isn't really the point right now, though. Closing his eyes, he tries to breathe evenly, tries not to blurt out any other half-formed thought. He makes himself turn those words over in his head, even though they sting. It can't be any worse than the things S has borne for him; they do this together, for each other, and he can handle it. And, besides, if it really was less than he'd come to fear, maybe it won't be quite so shocking when he's not already out of his mind and suicidal.

"I know how that feels," he settles on after a moment, "I think. I... for a long time, I didn't want to look in a mirror at all. I think I was scared of who I'd see. It wasn't... physical like that, but... maybe that's why it was so bad. When I did see myself, I knew I didn't look much different, but inside..." He sighs, shrugging the arm not around S. "I didn't know how to see it differently for a long time. The only reason I can now is because you saw me differently first." It's when he tries to keep things to himself that he really starts to fall apart. S may not be unstable like J is or has been, but J has to believe it would help him, too, being able to share things and to let J love him when he can't see his own beauty. "I can't change what you see. I can't force you to — to feel what I say is true. But maybe I could... do what you do. Show you what I see instead."