He lets that vein of conversation go, nodding his serious agreement over that statement. He wouldn’t give up anything of his twenties or even his thirties to be eighteen again. Nothing would be worth reliving that era of his life.

“Yeah, me too. They’re mostly covered, but,” he shrugs. He still knows they’re there, feels the wrongness in his skin in the way it feels when his clothes brush against him.

He takes a slow, deep breath in, counts, and eases it back out again. “That feeling- like someone’s watching you or- or like there’s someone standing behind you? I’ve lived with it for as long as I can remember.” He cuts his eyes up toward Raylan again, “Doesn’t make it easier to deal with, for the record.” He huffs a soft noises and continues, “Don’t take this the wrong way... I wouldn’t wish this on anybody... but— I dunno, I-I guess it’s just... nice to know I’m not the only one that feels it. I always was- cuz nobody else could see the ghosts.” He shrugs, he already feels like an asshole for saying it, and he tries to swallow it down. “Misery loves company, I guess.”

He’d meant it all in a solidarity sort of ‘You’re not alone’ way, but he’s not sure it came out right. There’s already a tangle of knots forming in his stomach as the anxiety of the possibility of Raylan taking the meaning wrong sinks in.