It's not exactly difficult; Elliot's guilt is thorns pointed inwards, little paper-cuts of feeling like he should be better at this. Then a yawning gulf of fuck other people that only exacerbates feeling bad, because he's supposed to care. It's probably more negative emotion than the actual damn funeral managed to pull out of him, and he's grateful suddenly for the costume.

"I didn't," he admits, flat. "I just got here. It's the polite thing to say."