He's thought about that more times than he can count, ever since that day. He wants to answer - I kind of figured. And it makes him feel sick to his stomach at how fast the revelation settles inside of him; how Tidus's death is the one thing that glues it together. The persistence to hide, the silence, the desperation as he watches Yuna leave. The chilling words spouting from madness and sorrow as his body fades, as Roland stares at the turnpikes of the platform gates through his chest. Light as air. Thinning out of existence.

It's fine. It won't hurt. I'll be back. It's fine!

The train will bring him back. The train keeps him solid.

Until one day, it won't. And no one will be able to do a thing about it.

Roland lowers his head, both his hands bracing against Tidus's shoulders, breaths coming in deep like fire filling his lungs. A grip that's heavy and unrelenting. A silent plea, an ask for the world to reconsider. It's always them. Always the young, the children, those who have no business dancing with ghosts or becoming one themselves.

Those who deserved a better life.

Behind closed eyes, the dust that remains of his son shifts through his fingers; a vision to remind him that death is always close by.

Roland exhales audibly, trying to clear his own head - for it was one thing to assume it, but it was another thing entirely to hear it out loud. I'm dead, Roland. I can't live without the watch.