"No," Cameron says, nodding, "it isn't." He doesn't know if they're meant to or not — people are remarkably sturdy creatures — but he knows they shouldn't have to. To him, it still seems abstract; there isn't much he's lost in his life, and certainly not like that, not in this set up which suggests everything done, every attachment formed, is doomed. There's a certain romanticism in it, in fact, but maybe that, too, is just his ignorance, his not understanding how it feels. Being without his brother is bad enough, but he'll get back home one day. It's hard and in ways he never would have expected, but it's bearable. It isn't the same as probably never seeing someone again.

He glances over at Jenny, her dark hair framing her pale face, the pretty seriousness of her, and his free hand lifts to rest on hers where it sits on his arm (there is something about the abstract, at times like this, which he suspects to be deeply personal, but he doesn't know her well enough to hazard a guess if that applies here or if he's simply imposing himself on others). It's brief, a quick gesture, before he thinks maybe that's too forward, and entirely out of place in a conversation centered on the inevitability of loss, however much held at a distance. His hand drops away again. "I wouldn't worry about it too much," he lies. "Maybe you'll be home again before it even matters."