[ She knew that—knows that—flickers and flashes, scattered across the top of his thought, before the tangled briar patch the fierce snarl where the rest hides and holds itself together as best it can get centuries and horrors more than one person should have to bear.

The question he asks—doesn't ask—that she hears anyway—isn't an answer he'd like—he's ready for. But he was tangled up in trying to answer her question, and it was too big a question. (How many of hers aren't anymore?) Even for her, sometimes The White Room and the edges of The Phoenix were still bigger and broader than the scope of the human mind. (It was back there, changing behind her still, too.)

There's a faint breath out her nose at those last words.
Because if there were truer words about Logan,
she might not know them.

Because he never does. ]

You must not have. [ She has to wonder what that says about his Jean—Scott's—theirs—too. It's a different ripple of domino choices, but not a wrinkle. She doesn't know how all of it fits, but she can at least give him something she does know. ] The Phoenix returns to The White Hot Room to heal and collect its— [ Their; Her. ] —shattered pieces.

She must love you a great deal. [ Whether he knows it or not. ]