Roman had heard once before that if you wrote things down when you felt like you were going to have an anxiety attack then the things would look smaller, that the thoughts that seemed so loud and deafening would seem so small on the paper that you'd be calmed down, so Roman went to search for some paper, and once he had found that and had gotten an old pen to work, he had started writing things down, small scribbles on the paper in latin so that if someone came over while he was writing things and he didn't notice they couldn't read it - very few in the clan could speak latin, so that meant that there would be less of a chance of someone being able to read it coming by and trying to read over his shoulder, right? He sure hoped so.

I don't remember the place I was born, what it was called, only what happened there. I don't remember the name of the first one I loved, only that she loved flowers. I'm forgetting things, I don't want to forget things.

It was the first thing he wrote on the paper, the theme staying the same for a while, comments of forgetting, naming different places he grew up, and explaining features of different animals he had met, their names and where they grew up lost to him, eyes shutting in frustration before he shook his head, shaky breath exhaling from his lips before he put the pen back to the paper, changing his tracks slightly, leaving the paranoia for later.

I just don't want to lose her name or her face. I don't want to lose Caroline. What's going on? I can't lose everything and everyone. I've already lost too much.

Once again, he continued, this time tears that formed in his eyes falling down to topple onto the paper, smearing the ink at the mention of Caroline. He missed her so much. He didn't remember the name of the home they had made together, but he did remember how much fun they had, how much they had loved each other, and now he was here, and he had met her daughter, someone who looked and acted so much as to how he knew her, and it made him miss her even more.

Head would heavily sink onto the paper with a thud, earlier memories starting to fade. When he tried to get flowers to stop growing around himself because he thought they were too girly, when he had gotten so sick that he thought he was going to die.

At long last, the male would lift his head up towards the sky, head tilting as he tried to find where the sun was. It was getting dark. Taking the papers that he had been writing on, he would go and grab some marshmallows and walk out towards a clearing before carefully using some tools he had found to set the papers on fire. Using sticks as kindling and a way to hide the papers, he would put the marshmallows on the end of some others and stick them in, and pretend nothing was wrong.