[ He isn't sure if he'll get a response or not, if his words end up too harsh in the end and Dokja decides he's had enough and cuts their connection. (Who could blame him, really, when an acquaintence-not-even-friend decides to butt in on personal affairs?) When their tenuous connection holds even after the tick-tock passing of many seconds, he lets out the silent breath that's been building inside his chest.

i had something witty i was going to put here but it's 11:15 pm and my lone brain cell has already crumbled to dust so you get nothing ]

It's not going to happen overnight.

[ His own grief is an empty mockery of what Dokja's feels like, and if he can't shake off the shackles that have been chaining him for the past decade and a half there surely there's no way Dokja can manage such a feat in the space of a few months.

Even so... ]

It definitely won't be possible if you believe it isn't.

[ The mind is a man's worst enemy, etc etc. The most insidious too, because it's a voice that can't ever be fully purged. But sometimes it can be muted for a short while, suppressed by a louder and more cacophonous group of voices. Family. Jovial coworkers. Friends.

He sighs again, this time audible. But his voice is muted when it follows, the shallow reserves of his energy depleted. He's pushed enough, he thinks. Everything that's left is up to Dokja now. ]

Take the hand the next time it's offered to you, instead of pushing it away.