a/n: Myself, I can't keep a diary. Just doesn't work out for me. Anyway. I sincerely hope no one has done the idea of Light finding L's diary, if they have, um...do you mind if I borrow it? If you are wondering why the title is "Dear Raito" when I refer to him as Light, it's because I don't like how "Dear Light" sounds.

As a disclaimer I have nothing to do with the ownership of Death Note.

I hope you enjoy reading, and I appreciate feedback of any kind.


"Sweets for my sweet."

This is the only sentence I can remember hearing from my mother. I have been told that she was a bright, idealistic woman, born in the remnants of a dying aristocracy. She could speak five languages and played the violin, a decadent talent since she had little interest in music or much else.

She suffered from chronic depression. Her family was highly relieved when she finally married.

I know even less about my father, and cannot recall anything beyond the lingering scent of liquor. He was a pastry chef, a genius in the culinary arts, they say.

He would have been famous had he liked his work more than alcohol, and he died the year I turned three.

I've seen pictures of both of them and if I squint then I can see the preceding echoes of my features.

My mother had long raven tresses and his eyes held no brightness; merely a set determination, a fixed vigor.

She hung herself with his apron a year after his death and when Watari found me I had black shadows under my eyes and an insatiable sweet tooth.

My posture and refined way of thinking would come later.

That first night in the orphanage I sat in front of a large fireplace calmly drinking a mug of hot chocolate.

There were adults talking in the room, arguing loudly. I realize now that it was my mother's family---their washed up noble blood boiling, attempting to snatch me back.

But Watari would have none of it and I was too young to realize how much power he really held to do such a thing, sending the mother's kin away from the child.

Soon enough he was sitting beside me with a mug of his own, asking me my name.

To think back on it! Such a sight. An older distinguished gentleman dirtying his fine tailored suit to speak on the same level of quite a small boy. Perhaps it was this act of friendship that enticed me to answer.

I told him that he already knew my name. I'd heard him say it before and just now.

He laughed, and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he agreed. Then he asked me what I would like to be called.

I mulled it over, thinking as a child thinks, until I fell asleep right there on the oriental rug. (Not that I had known what that green-gold pattern with its white lilies was called at the time.)

I was young and innocent and had already seen death, looked it straight in the eye, and while I didn't come out unscathed, I survived.

It was perhaps the only night that I was in fact a normal child:

I was warm and comfortable and the only justice that existed for me then was poetic.

Yes, Light---I said poetic.

…..I imagine you just jumped.

But you shouldn't be surprised, and I doubt you are. If you're reading this right now then it means you are Kira, and I am either dead or worse. Dead, I suppose, since you wouldn't have let me out alive, and I would never allow anybody else access to this.

I'll continue anyway. I bet you're dying to know how I became L. And even if you're not, you'll read this anyway; as I am 83 percent sure you are obsessive compulsive in instances like this.

(You'll undoubtedly be wanting to know if this is L's last counterattack, a message in a bottle, if destroying it will somehow send a sort of signal to someone somewhere as proof that you are Kira.

You are far too paranoid for someone your age. Today you looked over your shoulder sixteen times.

(It's always sixteen, did you know that?) )

I've never told this story to anyone before.

Just as I've never lost before, not when it mattered, not when I cared.

So perhaps this is fitting.


"Light--- what are you doing? You should be resting now!"

Light blinked and looked over his shoulder. Matsuda was ambling towards him in cheerful concern.

Before he could get close enough to the screen to read the text Light copied the file, sent it to his private e-mail account, and buried the original under case work that was months old.


"You spend so much time typing, Light. Are you sure you're not multitasking?"

Light sneered. "Of course I'm multitasking. And I'm sorry I can't type at inhuman speed, like you."

"Perhaps Light is embarrassed about his other activities. His fingers are moving faster as I speak, so maybe he is typing more than one thing?"

"Don't be ridiculous. What else would I be typing? Secret messages?"

"Kira would not be so careless as to communicate in front of me."

"I told you--"

"Maybe Light is typing notes to himself. Maybe he is writing a diary."

"A diary?" Light exhaled in exasperation. "Do I look like a twelve year old girl to you?"

"Are you suggesting that only young females keep diaries? I personally find the invention quite useful."

"Ryuuzaki? Are you saying you keep a diary?" Light asked in surprise.

"Eh? No. Did you know that you've stopped typing?"


"It's nothing, Matsuda, just playing solitaire," he said lightly, inwardly seething.
a/n: Thank you for reading! Between my other stories, this will probably not be updated very often, unless it's received well, in which case...well...I have time on my hands, so what the heck?