A/N: Inspired by a brief chapter in New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. I know, I used Twilight for Death Note. Sue me. XD So, intentionally, I used the last paragraph as the conclusion. On purpose, and I acknowledge no ownership to it.
Nor do I with Death Note. Or Sayu Yagami.
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January 27, 2011.
It's good to be home. I put my coffee down, and look the other way, perhaps too indifferent to look back at the clock on the wall. Making little circles along the stains of the dirty tablecloth, and eyeing the crumbs of the toast I had taken a few bites off before leaving it to stale. Then I resurface, taking a few steps back to my bedroom. To that little space of my childhood left intact.
Two years had been enough for me to notice. Everything looked exactly the same as I'd left it. Mom had never gotten around to cleaning my desk, which held everything just as perfect as it had been in the beginning. There they were, those endless months of anxious worrying over college admission results, the result in eraser shavings, chewed pen caps, and scribbled notes. A small flower pot on the side, stacked underneath with graduation thank you notes, along with those pictures from the party everybody remembered.
I can recall that morning vividly. As much as I urged her not to, mom had spent the entire night arranging everything for breakfast. I didn't even want to imagine how long it took to prepare that much food. But at least, she had cooked my favorite: tamagoyaki omelets. I didn't remember having those since junior high. Even father had managed to stay in the morning for a little longer before going to work. That made going away to college a little better. Those days, I felt like I barely remembered that he and Light were in our family. Mom and I were forced to spend most of the week at home alone, and half of the time we didn't understand why.
I credit my older brother less than he deserves. As far as I could remember, Light had always been the first one to come up with a solution for everything. When I couldn't get down from the monkey bars, he would shake his head and tell me to simply let go of the bars. When a boy had been mean at school and pulled my hair in the playground, Light would always stand up to the boy and hold my hand back home. I remember having terrible fits with my calligraphy, and even more terrible the amount of work I had been marked down because of my sloppy handwriting. He was flawless, as was normal for him. But one quiet winter evening, he had lent me in on a secret. As long as I really wanted to, I had the power to improve; only that much should matter to me. To this day, I am eternally grateful for those words, as I am for everything he did to protect what was right for the world.
On my bed stand, I notice, there's something different. I don't remember leaving it there. Or maybe I had succeeded in erasing it from my memory, making all those sleepless nights worthwhile. A small picture, not more than six inches wide, was in the center of the table. And on it, the last picture I had ever taken with him, back in a New Year's party. The last living image of Light Yagami.
And suddenly, I realize the date had been marked in my calendar all along. It's funny how things work out that way.
Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.