[In his refusal to meet Ion's eyes, Sandalphon doesn't see the apologetic smile. Instead, he mutters:]
It's not the same . . .
[There are plenty of differences. Ion talks of individualism, but Sandalphon has only ever craved to be like everyone else. Ion fears replacement; Sandalphon fears the uselessness that precedes such an outcome. They're not the same.
Yet there's no greater pain than being an obsolete substitute. That much is the same.
With a shaky exhale, he goes to sit down on the opposite end of the bed. His back turned to Ion, Sandalphon looks down at the parchment in his left hand. In spite of the former's obvious anguish, the latter finds himself, in a fit of childishness, feeling envious.]
no subject
It's not the same . . .
[There are plenty of differences. Ion talks of individualism, but Sandalphon has only ever craved to be like everyone else. Ion fears replacement; Sandalphon fears the uselessness that precedes such an outcome. They're not the same.
Yet there's no greater pain than being an obsolete substitute. That much is the same.
With a shaky exhale, he goes to sit down on the opposite end of the bed. His back turned to Ion, Sandalphon looks down at the parchment in his left hand. In spite of the former's obvious anguish, the latter finds himself, in a fit of childishness, feeling envious.]
You have a purpose.