Follen listened quietly while Quinn talked. He didn’t interject, didn’t motion for pause, his face never betrayed an ounce of judgement, or sympathy—or no more than was inherent to his naturally kind expression. This was his way in almost all of their sessions; he would sit in silence, or scratch notes in his journal without more than the quickest glance away from her, and simply listen. When she stopped talking, he waited, because often she simply needed a moment to catch her breath and collect her thoughts, and if she ever looked at him with uncertainty, he would nod encouragement, perhaps smile, and let her continue. He seemed to know when she was truly done, perhaps even before she did. 

He set his pen down, cleared his throat and folded his hands. “[color=lightblue]Empathy is difficult, Quinnlash. If you’ve learned anything since Hovvi, I’m sure you’ve learned that. Some people are can feel the sadness of others simply by stepping into a room with them. Some people understand, but choose to ignore it. Some people spend their whole lives trying to build up that sense of connection and humanity, and never quite manage. But you’re in a particularly unique situation, aren’t you? You’re incredibly empathic—between your actions and interactions, I don’t believe anyone would contest that—but you haven’t gotten to develop it. You spent your whole life alone.[/color]

“[color=lightblue]It’s a tragedy of the human condition that time takes our happiest memories away, but our traumas remain. You, I’m sure, remember many of the terrible things that were done to you with perfect clarity. Perhaps, effectively, they are [i]all[/i] that you had, and if your parents are truly dead, then, in some ways, now you have nothing. It is a natural reaction to cling to something, good or bad, rather than lose it—because it’s yours. And in that panic you might forget about the things you’ve [i]gained[/i], or might gain.[/color]

“[color=lightblue]Tell me, since you found out about them, have you wanted to be here any less?[/color]”