SLAM! Click. Lock.
There.
Misa took a deep breathe, leaning against the door to her dressing room. She could hear the crowd outside: kids with backstage passes, a few reporters, members of staff who couldn't resist asking for an autograph. She hoped she hadn't been too rude. After all, an hour before the show wasn't nearly enough. Crossing to the vanity, the blond sits appreciatively down on the velvet-covered stool and faces her reflection. She smiles, the make-up team really did wonders. Beneath the layers, Misa can't hide the nights of carefully and methodically scrolling name after name. One symbol at a time, she would show Light how much she loved him. The model tilts her head, turns it left and right, scrutinizes the beauty in the mirror. Misa isn't foolish enough to be insecure. She knows that it's her looks that have carried her this far; her smile, her large seemingly-Caucasian eyes.
Emphasize.
But Light doesn't care about that. Light doesn't even notice the way other men gawk at her. It doesn't matter what she's wearing, he wants something more. He wants her ability, her devotion, her trust. Misa knows the love of men, she likes to read their letters. Light is different. He doesn't desire her, he needs her-and Misa doesn't remember ever being of use to anyone.
