[And for once he's not going to tell her off for smoking. Not this time, she deserves a chemical crutch right now and it could be so much worse. He can't even wrap his head around how any of this must've been to live through, up until this point he could at least draw some parallells but they're deep into sci-fi territory by now. He still tries, brain ticking away to fill in with whatever facts he's got left, theories about multiple dimensions and time travel. All the things he never quite believed in until Marina.
The end of her story is all too easy to relate to, on the other hand. Adrian Bale, six agents dead. One of those universal things.
He remains silent for a little while once she's through, quietly listening to the tell-tale click-crackle of a lighter. He wasn't there, so he can't know and he'd never pretend that he does. It's a valuable glimpse into her life, her past, and that he appreciates limitlessly. Still, words are hard to find and so he borrows from someone else.]
The sorrow which has no vent in tears, may make other organs weep. Henry Maudsley.