Frisk looks up, hesitantly, and almost immediately they regret it. That hard stare freezes something inside their chest, a cold grip around their throat and heart. No, it's not kind in the slightest. No gentle words or patient understanding. Only blunt, hard truths that cut right to the core of things. Cold and cutting statements that leave no excuse to hide behind.

And yet...

"No, it's not."

Frisk shakes their head, swallows hard and ducks their head once more. Since when did their life hold any value? Since when would anyone be better off if Frisk were alive?

"You're...I can't lose you again. I can't."

It's the only thing they're good for. Take a few hits, go back, figure out a new strategy, try again. Be the crutch someone needs to find their way out of danger, carry someone when they can't move for themself. It's okay, because they always...

...get back up again.