[Echoes of last night's speech run through his head, the strange rant about how horrible it would've been to be capable of feeling anything for him, and John just falls onto his bed. He kicks the balled-up blanket aside and tucks the pillow under his head, eyes closed. Images layering over images in his head, the metaphor of negatives again, every different Petre visible under the other but none of them clear.]

You're the one who was stupid enough to be honest. But whatever, more extra homework I won't do, really fucking scared.