Maddeningly, having reached what he wanted to, it feels like the understanding of it is murky and mired at the best. Nonexistent at worst. Like it holds for all of a second before Victor asks another question, a different one, to the opposite of it, like maybe that wasn't the answer, and certainly not with the same feeling or expression from seconds ago.

It's almost disorienting how fast it all can become frustration. Disappointment.
(But at least he's well versed in that shift? Those feelings. Their weight.)

That he'd gotten there, back there, and it seemed almost right, except that now it looked like it'd gotten lost on the way there, too. Or maybe it never made sense when he did finally try to say it. Or maybe it made as little sense to say as it was to try and question the inside of his head, his feelings, as though someone else was ever going to find the questions and echo back a clear answer up for him.

He wants to sigh. He's not sure there is another way, if he arleady managed to bungle this one up, and the first one, when it was freshest and most direct, and least understood. Language is clumsy, and it feels like the answer is all over him, in his skin as well as on top of it, and somehow he still didn't get it right.