If Ginsberg didn't feel like having the lights on, Ned isn't going to switch them on just for his own comfort. Besides, now that he can see well enough to avoid touching anything unexpected, he doesn't mind the dimness. In a way, it's easier for him, too. Serious conversations somehow seem suited to the dark. and he doesn't want to set up a pattern where Ginsberg feels he needs to compromise his comfort for Ned's sake at a time like this.

He sets aside the question of when Ginsberg will come out, of what his coworkers are thinking, sets aside the revelation that it's not the first time he's done this. The script that Ginsberg seems to anticipate he'll follow is not the one he has in mind.

"It's not the first time I've locked myself in a closet, either." It is, he thinks, the first time he's done so for this particular reason, though. He is seized with a fleeting but intense feeling of inadequacy and unpreparedness. What if he does the wrong thing and makes matters worse? What if he only causes Ginsberg more pain?

But he has practice at shoving aside such thoughts, and does so with alacrity. Ginsberg's standing a fair distance away from him (or at least, as much as the cramped closet will allow). Ned, cautiously, takes a step closer. He's still getting his bearings, trying to suss out what might upset Ginsberg further.

Because the more he can see, the more Ned can tell that he's not doing alright at all. He's never seen Ginsberg like this, never heard him like this. It actually, physically hurts, but for once Ned is successful at masking what he feels on his face. He's got to keep a lid on it, for fear of making Ginsberg even more of a mess.

"Did something happen?"