[ It's similar, in a way, to a conversation they had once before: so he believes it, though he won't say it out loud. Knowing what he knows now, there's something about the Planet, back home, that Aerith is connected to; could she become connected to this one, too? Is there something that he can do to encourage it, if she wants it, or sever it, if it would put her into danger? His lips press together, a breath through his nose, but he doesn't say anything; no matter what she says, he feels stupid about it, in a way, like his inability to connect with people extends to plants and animals, as well.

After all, all those cats ran away from him in the slums. Has to mean something.

His gaze shifts, though his body is resolutely stiff--it's less out of embarrassment and more that he finds, peculiarly, that he doesn't want to move away from her, doesn't want her to feel like he wants to sever the contact. Rather, it's a point of warmth that blossoms from his bare arm past the thick material of his shirt and boils around in his chest; he watches her touch the plant and decides he doesn't want to risk ruining the feeling by doing the same. ]

Sure. But you're making it sound so simple. [ There is a small sliver of humor in his voice, as his palm lays flat against the mound of the flower he just planted. ] Like those are the only two feelings. Happy, or sad.

Do they feel afraid? Or longing? It's... [ A soft breath. ] ...hard to tell, sometimes.