Nodding, he pushes his free hand into his jeans pocket, looking anywhere but in her direct although the grip of his hand in hers tightens. He still thinks it's all in his head. He could be here a year, or ten, or twenty and he's not sure that perception will ever change. He's not sure he'd want it to: what that would say for or about him. Every so often he'll file away another point of proof that this is his creation, a too-familiar face, or some echo of his real world seeping through. Sometimes he wakes from dreams convinced he heard the beeping of cardiac monitors in his sleep.

But he has accepted it. From the start he's worked well within the boundaries of this being a construct -- learned not to tell imaginary people that's what they are, and treated life here like life as if (in case) it's all he has left. There aren't too many people with enough insight to know his game. She's one, and he's suddenly caught in a burst of gratitude that almost leaves him gasping.

"I don't hate it. I don't believe in it, but I didn't believe in... Star Wars and I liked that. There are good things here." He laughs suddenly, incongruously, and if he wasn't looking down, at the knit of their hands between them, she might see that his smile is far too painfully sharp. Tilting his head, he hesitates like he's trying to get his mouth around the phrasing. "I've been wondering what there is to go back to."