[Rich doesn't answer for a long moment, staring down at his mug with stiff shoulders. His thoughts swirl around in his head in a repulsive mess of desperation and denial. He invited Aziraphale over here to try to convince himself it was okay to need help, but of course, now that he's here, all Rich can think is that he shouldn't say a thing. He's strong enough on his own. Brave enough. Why is he letting it bother him anyways? He should be fine. He shouldn't show-]

I can't do this again.

[Weakness. His shoulders shake and his voice quivers traitorously.]

I thought at least I'd be free for good now. It only took, what, months of physical therapy and promising the counselor a thousand times I wasn't going to put a bullet through my head? But hey, it was over. I wasn't going to be stuck in my own head ever again. I was going to be okay.

I was supposed to be okay...

[He ducks his head down even lower. Weak, pathetic, crybaby, waste of space... a voice in his head repeats, while he tries to ignore the fact it doesn't quite sound like his own.]