Is he wrong? Maybe he was. The shock in her expression is unmistakable, and there's that familiar guilt that wells up in his chest, gnawing away at his composure as he regards her with a fraction more uncertainty than before. So that's - great, isn't it, that he just casually drops bombshells like that in conversation, in front of normal people who don't think about that kind of thing daily with a casual desolation, thinking idly, wondering what it'd be like to die with actual permanence.

She stares at him with her mouth hanging open, and he regrets every implication he just dropped in her lap. Is there even a remote chance of worming his way outta this one without explanation?

Hell no. She's going to want something. Or - maybe she'll just rewind her way back to the conversation's beginning until she gets what she wants. If she's feeling up to it, anyway. Who can say.

"Wouldn't blame you." And that's - that's definitely morbid as hell, way more than he has any right being in front of someone who's already lost someone. "I mean, you're already killing yourself, right?"

He gestures with the cigarette held between two fingers, at the smoke curling its way into her lungs.

Smoking's just a slower means to a more permanent end.