There's a long, long silence where all he does is breathe in, breathe out. In, out, and when he's certain his eyes won't betray him by being overly bright, he turns to face Tifa. Cloud once told him he was cool and he said he supposed that was true, but that's all exterior. Inside, he alternates between burning and freezing; outward appearance is a trick of balance. Nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm... not sure." He can't put voice to some of the things that come to mind: that Lucrecia would actually be happy to see him; that she would let him approach; that she would ask him about himself. It's too much to expect from her, though. All she is these days is a remnant: memories in a database and the fact he can visit her at all is enough of a gift that he ought to be satisfied.

But every time he visits her, he leaves more distressed than the time before. Answers are elusive and explanations are never forthcoming. Loving an echo is not an easy task, but he does it anyway. It's one of the debts he feels he owes her for not protecting her from circumstance. He was, after all, assigned to her safety and failed.

How does someone ever know where to draw the line? More than anything, he wanted her to be happy... but at what cost? For both of them? She was nothing more than a vehicle for Hojo, a convenient womb with whose product he could experiment but he... loved her for the woman she was. If Hojo had just seen a glimmer of what he saw in her but... well... he didn't and now Hojo is gone, and he's glad about it and at the same time filled with remorse. The Turks taught him to kill, but Hojo... Hojo taught him to hate.

"I don't know," he repeats softly. "To be... spoken to with true kindness, I suppose. I don't know." How can he explain the depth of his feelings to Tifa without seeming ungrateful for all he does have? Not a single bit of this is her problem, and he wishes again he hadn't said anything. "This... doesn't need to be your concern. I apologize for bringing it up."