It's difficult to see the clear signs of suffering in someone he has genuinely come to care about, and even more difficult to know that she's probably trying not to shed these tears. They aren't present with the intent of manipulating him; she cares to the extent that they fall unbidden, for him. Automatically, he reaches into his jacket, where his wrinkled pocket square has been stuffed out of sight. He sets it on the table, nudging it toward her, hoping that it doesn't make her self-conscious, the fact that he has blatantly acknowledged the fact that she is crying by this point.

He is patient as she writes, and he tries to be kind, though there aren't words that feel appropriate, somehow. So he remains silent until the napkin is within his sight again, at which point he shakes his head slowly back and forth.

"You take too many burdens on your shoulders," he sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Even if there are people you can't save, it doesn't mean that you are killing them. There... is a distinction."