Sam coughs lightly into a fist and looks away at that answer. His cheeks were red from the cold, but to him they felt warm.

Right. Cyril was going to make getting over things harder.

Sighing, Sam looks back up at the Elf. "So you remember that I was sitting at the bar at whatever Maker forsaken hour that was in the early morning. Dreaming... sometimes isn't pleasant." There was a pause, as if Sam wanted to say something else, but quickly dismisses it. "It worries me sometimes that if I'm not careful, I might not be me when my eyes open."