There was another sniffle, and then the Tailor blew their nose again. The flood was slowing finally. Their eyes burned and their throat hurt, and more than anything they were very literally tired.

"M'just...m'tired. I think."

They swallowed around the tightness in their throat. They still felt embarrassment, maybe shame, for such a potent reaction. The Correspondence was a language of truth, and nature's law, things one Knew without thinking about it, without directly facing it. Their head was beginning to throb, and they'd gone unblinking for an hour.

But god hadn't it been fun to do? Something in them missed it already. Curled toward it like a moth to--

To light.

Light sees things, it exposes the flaws, and they wondered if looking at the light had forced them to see their own cracks. They were numerous.

"I 'aven't cried in years. Body weren't--" they swallowed again, and forced it out properly, through it felt like talking around needles. "Body wasn't used to it. S'all."

(The truth was the Tailor felt things constantly. Anger, mostly. They let themself feel anger, because if they were angry they could point it somewhere. Fear, constantly simmering. Disdain. Impatience. The need to win, if only to prove to everyone who had looked over them how wrong they all were. The feelings were always present, and the Tailor saw them for what they were. But to express them? That would never be approved of. It was vulnerable. It was weak.)

"I'll... be alright," they croaked. "Jus' need water. And sleep."