[ That's an answer. It's no comfort, but it rings all the more honest for it. He's silent a moment, considering. ]

Do you even know that you have? Changed, I mean. If you don't know what's real.

[ That's the problem, isn't it? The one that crawls into his skin in these empty hours. But his voice is even, feeling out the shape of this uncertainty. How can he know anything for sure? ]

Maybe you always were this person, or that one — or nobody at all.