"It helps a little. Unless you don't exist, either. If you're just a figment of my imagination, you'd probably want to tell me I existed, so I wouldn't decide neither of existed and will both of us away entirely. But I'm pretty sure you exist, too, so maybe we're okay."

That said, and apparently decided, he takes Ned's hand firmly, squeezing it a little, as though all the answers he's looking for can be found just from holding onto Ned's hand tightly and trying to concentrate on the fact that Ned's here to help him, that Ned cared enough to come here to try to talk him through this. It's only partially effective; his breathing is still quick, and even in the dimly lit closet, it's probably obvious to Ned that his face is white with stress.

"I feel sick," he mutters, and that's really no surprise, if he's been locked in a dark closet for five hours, worrying and obsessing and spending all of his time inside his own mind. "I keep thinking... I just keep thinking about what I said, that I don't know who anyone is, that I don't know who I am, and then I think about how much you wouldn't like me if you knew who I am, either. Do you ever think about that? How you're the pie guy and I'm the ad guy and we have these roles we fulfill and maybe we're a little weird but that stops people from asking the really serious questions, because you can just chalk it all up to weirdness, but then if you dig deep, at least for me, there're all kinds of messy things in there and I don't think the pie guy would really like the ad guy if he knew him all that well. So maybe you shouldn't be here, either, because I really want you to like me."