"Ah," he said, it sounding weighted, far more expressive and knowing that it should have any right to be for a single syllable. He leaned back on the sofa he'd been sitting on earlier.
"Confidence and independence aren't the same thing," he said wisely. "I've been independent, living on my own for four years. I've had almost no confidence for the same amount of time. The war really fucked me up," he explained. It was far more frank than he was used to being, but something in him was releasing now, slowly uncurling.
"Skeletally thin people remind me of Voldemort, people walking up behind me on the street remind me of being captured. Art is my way of escaping, my way of coping. I put on a confident face for years, but it was all a lie. You have to find some truth, some peace somewhere.
"Maybe it's someone to see you as beautiful, and love you for it. Maybe it's someone to let you get away from your job where you were confronted by a new round of people who made you freak out every day by just being there. Find that thing," he said.
He gulped down his tea, his eyes having gone from Hannah to the floor as soon as his little speech ended. He couldn't face her, not any more, he felt so raw. He wasn't sure he wanted the session to go on. He wanted to draw yes, but in a cathartic way not in the way that would mean Hannah sitting in front of him in some pose. Something from his very soul. His palms were almost itching with it.