[Listen, he's a home schooled rich boy. Delicate sensibilities are inevitable.]

Ew.

[That's all he has to say about that. He makes a face, too, before the conversation turns to more palatable things (well, less palatable for her).]

You can't identify real love...? [That's terribly sad. He pauses, thinks, frowns.] No, I'm sure you can. Between the desperation and stretching yourself so thin, you're probably just not giving yourself the opportunity for genuine feelings to develop. But I suppose dealing with that impulse is easier said than done, or I wouldn't be writing this on you.

[And speaking of, he applies the last line, closing his sleeve over the wound to stifle the blood.]

Not that I'm encouraging it. Finding someone to dedicate yourself to in hell just sounds like setting yourself up for heartbreak.

[He's heard of one too many people disappearing since his arrival, leaving behind friends and lovers.]