He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. All of his time was spent pretending it never happened.
It never happened. There was no glimpse of hope, no glimmering sight of a future that held almost everything he had once had. It was not torturous; it did not haunt him as he tried to sleep at night. His nights were not spent staring at a ceiling that he could not see.
He insisted that he was the same as he was before.
Nothing had been lost, except for the sweet, teasing taste of a normal life. He didn't feel cheated. He wasn't angry.
He was still slightly pissed at his best friend for lying to him.
He did not chase away the worry that his friend had been right. He was not secretly thankful and simultaneously resentful of the man's intervening actions.
He refused to accept that he could have a problem.
He didn't feel lost or confused. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to punch Wilson in the face or call out for him or kiss him. He was never buried so deeply in his own thoughts that he couldn't imagine ever being free. The physical was never overwhelming.
The pain was never too much.