A wave of relief cuts through the misery, just for a moment. He needed to hear that. His face gets hot again and he presses it against the pillow, sniffling and trying to dry his eyes off. Michael holds Lee's arm against himself firmly in some kind of attempt to reassure himself that she's really here and is really staying.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
His body is more comfortable now and he wants more than anything to rest, to sleep, to just turn off, but that kind of peace doesn't seem accessible yet. Idly he wonders how long it would take to really lose it from sleep deprivation, like Don on speed. Forty-eight hours? He might make it. That door is still opening again and again. Other things, too, are starting to bleed through from his dreams, and from his memories of memories.
Talking is painful, but lying there in silence might be worse.
“I didn't mean to lie to you,” he says. “About what I was.”