[Crow doesn't answer for a moment, though not because he's trying to come up with the ways Heather could have made it worse (even if he could probably think of at least 10 examples) -- instead, he takes a moment to reflect upon something that's been bothering him since their talk (or perhaps "argument" would fit better) over the network, along with some other thing he heard from different people in the past few weeks.

"Perhaps the fire does bring her some memories..."

"They always manage to get in our lives someway."

That person.

This problem.

They.

It.

People with no faces, situations with no context -- all of that leaves Crow completely and utterly lost. It kind of frustrates him, doubly so that not knowing what's going on means he can't help a friend, as it has already been proved not too long ago. He wouldn't, of course, want to try to force Heather to confess her whole past to him or anything -- something like that has never crossed his mind -- but if you look at the greater picture, then...]

... Hey.

[Crow turns to face her now, his voice quiet and calm -- perhaps unusually so -- but still bearing faint traces of fatigue.]

Remember how you've once told me I don't talk too much 'bout myself? Come to think of it, you don't, either. I mean--

[His tone changes completely: it's much more lively and light-hearted now, but rather hasty, judging by the speed with which he spits out the next few sentences.]

I've known you for what, a year and a half? Probably longer than that. And I don't even know when your birthday is! Or what your favorite food is. Or favorite color. Or hobby. Or--

[He finally makes a pause to breathe, though it comes off more like another sigh.]

... anything, really.