The god of death, the new Lord Death, the Grim Reaper, the principal of the DWMA and 'ruler' of Death City.
So many new titles.
He wanted his father back, but he knew that would never happen.
So many new responsibilities.
His friends supported him, made gestures of kindness every day, like buying him a cup of coffee.
So many new people.
The new Lord Death made changes he saw fit for the world he wanted to create.
So many new prospects.
Yes, he finally had the power to make things beautiful.
So many choices.
Duties and guidelines forced him from making swift progress.
So many boundaries.
His whole life had led up to that moment where the Sanzu lines connected, and his life was set on a straight path from the start.
So few options.
Friends would complain about not having jobs, or not having the job they wanted, or going to a college they didn't like, or hating their boyfriend or girlfriend, or not having the car they wanted, or their house being too expensive, or their house falling apart, or not having time to go out and party, or having a bad hangover that wouldn't quit.
So little freedom.
The death god was jealous his whole life, seeing people making choices all their own.
So few chances.
No one would guess that he wanted to be in their shoes, no one would guess that even though he felt blessed, he also felt cursed.
So little understanding.
Becoming Lord Death was a nail in the coffin, both his and his father's.
Little light.
He could never have a mate in the same way a person could, he could never have a pet the same way a person could, he could never choose a job like a person could, he could never mess up like a person could.
Little love.
No matter how hard he tried, even as a complete Grim Reaper, he wasn't a perfect being, since he felt these human emotions, and he knew his faults too well.
Little appreciation.
The death room was quiet when no one was around, and so the only sound to be heard was the sound of light sobs, since no one could see a death god cry, as that would be ungodly, a sign of weakness.
Little joy.
Putting on a face, he'd make it through the day with the idea that someone was waiting for him back at home, and in the case that he was able to leave the school and travel back to Gallows Manor, he'd find everyone asleep, or no one around, going to have a good time, or it being way past midnight, since his perception of time was so skewed by the constant day in the room he was supposed to stay.
Little to anticipate.
People looked up to him, respected him, demanded things from him he could only dream of being needed before, and when he didn't make everything exactly precise, he'd get yelled at or nagged at.
So little voice.
How was he supposed to be like his father?
How was he supposed to be Lord Death?
He'd rather be Death the Kid,
still learning by his late dad's feet.
He knew so little yet.
How could he compete?
So many jobs.
So little knowledge.
No choice.
No help.
Alone.
