Flowers
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noun, plural: a plant, considered with reference to its blossom or cultivated for its floral beauty.
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She visits him every day. Sometimes there are other people there, sometimes not. They seem to understand now, for the most part, that she prefers to be alone in doing this.
Sometimes she brings him flowers.
Kneeling at this altar to mortality, this desperate site of struggle and loss, she allows the tears to flow as she remembers how his eyes used to water too, when she brought him flowers before. It was his one flaw, the allergy, leaving him sneezing and coughing with tears streaming down his face.
Not that he was crying, of course. Her Light never cried. Not even at the end, in that horrible warehouse with Kira and the other horrible men and the bullets and...
At first, she'd tried to staunch the tears. Bravery, that was what was needed. What he'd have wanted, if he'd known (and maybe he did, Misa had always heard people talking about how they'd hear you if you spoke, and sometimes, just sometimes, that was enough to entice them back). But in the end it had been an impossible task. Misa had never been very good at hiding her emotions, not where he was concerned anyway.
And so she cries. Never onto the flowers though. Salt's bad for flowers- the gardening sections of her old magazines said so (not that she reads them any more).
"Don't you dare give up." She tells him, little-girl-happy voice abandoned to make room for her grief. "Don't you dare leave me. Not now, not after all... all we've been through." (it's cheesy, she knows, but anything's worth a try) "Please."
There is no response from her beloved. The breeze sneaks its way through the windows, making the curtains flutter halfheartedly. The sun shines, and she hates it. The heart machine blips (oh, the irony), and she hates that too, even though it's one of the reasons he's still alive, still trapped in this bleak, sunlit world of starched sheets and metal beds. Still breathing, just, though the ice-cold hand she grasps does not move a muscle.
Hasn't done for four hundred and eighty-four days. Misa's been counting.
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A week later, she's woken by a phone call. They want her to sit down, to make sure you're prepared for...
What for?
Ah... Miss Amane, well. You have our deepest sympathies, but I'm afraid...
It was the flowers, wasn't it? Has to have been. The ones she brought him yesterday, the daffodils, they must have had too much pollen, because why else would her strong, beautiful, precious Light just... give up on her? Just stop his heart, stop breathing?
A heart attack, they said.
Misa knew better.
Not that she'd ever tell. She'd take the secret to her grave, because she still needed love, and who'd love her when they realised she'd killed Light with her flowers?