[That rawness is hard to look at. And it's harder still to fight the instinctual urge to rise from her chair, close the distance and soothe away the pain with gentle words and soft touches. But she looks, and she fights, and tries to find peace in the knowledge that at least he's not swallowing it down, keeping it locked up behind tightly pursed lips and clenching fingers.]

... You know what I think about grief. There's nothing 'disproportionate' about what you feel, in my opinion.

[Abbachio was a shadow she barely got to know, but Mista... Giorno spoke so passionately about Mista, and not a word of it was exaggeration, she knew. Those days above the coffee shop gave her plenty of evidence.

Idly, her fingers meet around her cup, the ones of her right spinning the modest band on her left.]

What makes you think it's ridiculous?