she holds the note in open palms, deathly still, and reads it. she reads it over and over again, skimming over the words so many times, so quickly, that the individual meanings blur and run together and all she understands is the strange coiling in her stomach. all she can think of his is voice in her head, the way he always says her name like it is the punchline to a joke she isn’t in on. but she is in on the joke; she just likes to pretend that she isn’t. ignorance is bliss.
"oh, i have missed you, misa amane. that fiery personality you have always did pair well with your hands - small, soft, delicate hands. you would be so angry with me and yet your hands could never match the feeling. those desperate hands you have... you just wanted the physical touch, didn't you? you stopped being so angry when we kissed; when i held your hands the way you like, when i looked into your very special eyes... i'm coming back for you, misa. i'll be watching." —— @extrxmegxnius.
misa knows when she is being spoon-fed bullshit, and she knows that more often than not she will swallow anything as long as it is sugar-coated enough. he knows it, too, and always has —— and he has always been so willing. so ready to ply her with saccharine arsenic. and this isn’t new; the cycle is a familiar dance, so she shouldn’t be surprised to find this note slipped beneath her front door. she has always known that he’ll never really leave. isn’t that what she wanted? isn’t that the demand she made?
but her stomach still coils, winds itself into a knot that is equal parts dread and anticipation. she sets the note down on the nearest surface and then moves through her apartment, from room to room, half expecting to find him waiting for her somewhere inside. it would be like him, to be gone for so long and then simply appear one again one day, waiting for her as though he never really left. and maybe he doesn’t. maybe he never goes far, only leaves to watch what she does. that wouldn’t surprise her, either.
he isn’t here. part of her is relieved about that, but there is disappointment there, too. she misses the part of the dance where she gets to fly into a fit of rage, howling and trashing against something that will still be standing when she’s done, waiting to embrace her in the aftermath. it’s catharsis she wants from him, a firm wall to throw herself against until she breaks.
she reads the note over one last time before she sets it ablaze with her lighter in the kitchen sink, watching the paper darken and curl in on itself as the flames take it. she does not wash the ashes down the drain, but she does deadbolt her front door. the least she can do is pretend to make it harder for him.
