[ The knot of anxiety in his chest tells him that it means literally everything he thinks it means. That everything Syrlya says is a genuine reflection of what the real Syrlya thinks.

But rationally, that makes no sense. And he knows he's being emotional.

He presses his hands to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly aware of how close to shedding tears he is. He breathes, trying to kick his rational brain into gear. ]

It doesn't mean anything. It's noise—irrationalities using my memory of your face to voice themselves back to me.

[ His voice drops to a whisper. ]

I know you don't hate me.