Ryou Bakura, at his desk, was writing a letter he never intended to send. He started with Dear, and realized he did not have a name to add after it, because Yugi had not yet told him about a coincidence that would later make his blood run cold. He frowned and hovered his pen above the line for a second, before finally skipping it and moving on.
Dear ,
I am trying to figure out what I want to say to you.
He paused, and stared at it. He found he did not like doing this if he thought about how someone could theoretically answer. Did that make it fraught? Was that why he couldn't think of any words? He clicked the pen several times, compulsively fidgeting, brain blank.
I think the answer might be nothing.
I don't think you would like that answer. You wouldn't like it at all. You would demand that you are entitled to something better.
But I am no longer interested in hearing about what you want from me.
He tapped it on the table, uncertain.
You know when you wear something heavy for long enough, your shoulders feel weird once it's gone? Yugi says he's the same.
You're not wearing it anymore either. I bet you feel it too.
I hope that is the last thing we ever share.
He signed the letter, and then he picked up the page and folded it in half with the perfectly lined edges of someone well-practiced in papercraft. Then he folded it into fourths, and slightly less neatly into sixths. Then he tore it in half, and tore those pieces in half again, and a few more times for good measure, and then threw the confetti into the tiny trash bin next to his desk. He reached for a blank piece of paper. Amane was always easier to talk to, anyway.