Re: lake, by the shore
His ability for conversation seemed to stick out the fatigue and whatever else was dragging him down, and he answered from under the lapping of the water that was still making a bid for his lungs. "Jokes don't use feeling words." Whatever those were. Idly he tried to review the number of people in his past that had told him to "lighten up" or something of that nature. He always supposed that was because his lack of enthusiasm for talking made them uncomfortable, but sometimes they didn't understand what he was saying.
For many reasons, he was more likely to let confusion stand than press on for clarity. He didn't have a desire to stamp his opinions on other people hard enough to make a mark, and when they made assumptions, he let them. They were happier that way, and if he did attempt it, they liked to argue until they were back to where they started, making the pursuit pointless. "There are nice people here," he said.
Actually, at one point he did try to help her with his weight as she beached him on the shore, but he didn't manage it. The cold and the strain took too much, and he couldn't support his weight for long. In the end he just sat there and dripped in the cold, his jaw set against his own folly. "I am not ill." He started to say something else, and then didn't. He didn't actually want to talk about it. (Volunteering information: something else he did not do.)
He turned his head to look at her. "Regret is part of life. We cannot do everything correctly, or make every choice as if we know the future."