[ Truthfully, neither does Alan. He simply sits there in front of the door staring at it, waiting and watching and trying to put his jumbled thoughts back in order. Part of him knows he can't do it, because how is he supposed to organize his thoughts when they just keep doubling back on themselves repeatedly?
I stopped myself from fixing the story. Alice is dead and I wasn't there. I stopped myself from fixing the story. Alice is dead.
He knew he shouldn't have sent her the riddle, but it's all he could think of to write. How can he put into words what he's thinking? How can he explain that he feels more lost than ever and more afraid than ever that everyone he cares about will die too?
The riddle wasn't him screwing with her. It was him desperately trying to say something, but not pile more of his troubles onto her. He's done that enough; he's hurt her enough. How can he hurt her more by explaining the state he's in?
His vision begins to swim and he remembers that he's holding his breath. Why? He shakes his head and lets out a loud exhale as another response comes back to him from under the door. Shaking hands unfold the pages she's slid to him, and he takes it all in. He takes in the drawing with the doors and their symbols, pausing with each image that he sees. These doors seem to mirror ones he's seen before, in the hotel that he's passed through before. There must be a connection, something linking the Oceanview Hotel with the Motel that Jesse knows.
It's not enough. I can't use that connection to come home. I can't use it to see Jesse. This is as close as I'm going to get when I'm not in a loop.
He brushes his fingers over the surface of the page that has drops on it that look suspiciously like places where tears fell.
Is that all that I'm good for? Upsetting her, making her sad, making her worried... She deserves better than this. Better than me.
His fingers curl around the pages that he holds, wrinkling the paper until he realizes what he's doing. He quickly tries to smooth them out again before he puts pencil to paper again. ]
I'm sorry, I- I don't know how to tell you what I've seen... what I've learned. I-
[ The words trail off into a scribble, but then after the scribble is another sentence, just four more words, written in a shakier hand than before. ]
What have I done?
[ Too late, he realizes she's not meant to answer that, but the words are already on the page, and while he could scribble them out, a part of him says he shouldn't. So, before he can change his mind, he shoves the page beneath the door. ]
no subject
I stopped myself from fixing the story. Alice is dead and I wasn't there. I stopped myself from fixing the story. Alice is dead.
He knew he shouldn't have sent her the riddle, but it's all he could think of to write. How can he put into words what he's thinking? How can he explain that he feels more lost than ever and more afraid than ever that everyone he cares about will die too?
The riddle wasn't him screwing with her. It was him desperately trying to say something, but not pile more of his troubles onto her. He's done that enough; he's hurt her enough. How can he hurt her more by explaining the state he's in?
His vision begins to swim and he remembers that he's holding his breath. Why? He shakes his head and lets out a loud exhale as another response comes back to him from under the door. Shaking hands unfold the pages she's slid to him, and he takes it all in. He takes in the drawing with the doors and their symbols, pausing with each image that he sees. These doors seem to mirror ones he's seen before, in the hotel that he's passed through before. There must be a connection, something linking the Oceanview Hotel with the Motel that Jesse knows.
It's not enough. I can't use that connection to come home. I can't use it to see Jesse. This is as close as I'm going to get when I'm not in a loop.
He brushes his fingers over the surface of the page that has drops on it that look suspiciously like places where tears fell.
Is that all that I'm good for? Upsetting her, making her sad, making her worried... She deserves better than this. Better than me.
His fingers curl around the pages that he holds, wrinkling the paper until he realizes what he's doing. He quickly tries to smooth them out again before he puts pencil to paper again. ]
I'm sorry, I- I don't know how to tell you what I've seen... what I've learned. I-
[ The words trail off into a scribble, but then after the scribble is another sentence, just four more words, written in a shakier hand than before. ]
What have I done?
[ Too late, he realizes she's not meant to answer that, but the words are already on the page, and while he could scribble them out, a part of him says he shouldn't. So, before he can change his mind, he shoves the page beneath the door. ]