[A near miss with the tray, the scent a warning that saves him from a stubbed toe. The whole display - a note -
A reminder of his small hand tangled in the soft fabric of his mom's shirt in a kitchen that fit the two of them like a snug puzzle piece. He remembers when she would try - smells that permeated through a too small, dingy apartment. Their instant noodle meals more than enough because all he wanted was to sit in her lap, but the elation that ran through his body when he felt steam hit his face - the smell of almost burnt fish, an expression on her face that may have been a smile at one point in her life. She had stopped smiling by the time his memories started and-
He remembers.
This smells better. Looks better. Is probably similar to the photos he's sure she looked at online before she tried to recreate a meal beyond their normal microwave heat ups.
It tastes better. Feels the same. An insane churning in his stomach as he picks apart the fish, the eggs, a reminder of home he never experienced, but surges through his body all the same. Nostalgia and grief an overwhelming, crushing, burning-
A meal created for him with the same degree of care his mother must have tried to feel.
It was hard for her. She was obligated. She tried and he'll never begrudge how much it hurt her to try and try and try when he life was falling apart because of the person she was making birthday meals for.
The irony in knowing he's taking bites from a breakfast of someone who tries and tries , despite the bullet Akechi will be forced to put in his skull.
He pushes it down. Forces it down. Rips it from his throat so he can swallow. Tears it from his chest so he can breathe.
The note is laughable and-
Placed into his pillowcase. A lie Gone. A lie hidden. A lie that's his.
The jagarico an inside joke - sticks lost in a dream back in his hands in reality. Umami Seaweed. It's one of his favorites, stocked in his cabinet at home.
The text comes long after breakfast, well into the afternoon. After Akechi's washed the dishes and tray it came on.]
It was unnecessary to do that.
But it was delicious. I haven't had a breakfast like that in years.
Sometimes nostalgia is a nice sensation to revisit.
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A reminder of his small hand tangled in the soft fabric of his mom's shirt in a kitchen that fit the two of them like a snug puzzle piece. He remembers when she would try - smells that permeated through a too small, dingy apartment. Their instant noodle meals more than enough because all he wanted was to sit in her lap, but the elation that ran through his body when he felt steam hit his face - the smell of almost burnt fish, an expression on her face that may have been a smile at one point in her life. She had stopped smiling by the time his memories started and-
He remembers.
This smells better. Looks better. Is probably similar to the photos he's sure she looked at online before she tried to recreate a meal beyond their normal microwave heat ups.
It tastes better. Feels the same. An insane churning in his stomach as he picks apart the fish, the eggs, a reminder of home he never experienced, but surges through his body all the same. Nostalgia and grief an overwhelming, crushing, burning-
A meal created for him with the same degree of care his mother must have tried to feel.
It was hard for her. She was obligated. She tried and he'll never begrudge how much it hurt her to try and try and try when he life was falling apart because of the person she was making birthday meals for.
The irony in knowing he's taking bites from a breakfast of someone who tries and tries , despite the bullet Akechi will be forced to put in his skull.
He pushes it down. Forces it down. Rips it from his throat so he can swallow. Tears it from his chest so he can breathe.
The note is laughable and-
Placed into his pillowcase. A lie Gone. A lie hidden. A lie that's his.
The jagarico an inside joke - sticks lost in a dream back in his hands in reality. Umami Seaweed. It's one of his favorites, stocked in his cabinet at home.
The text comes long after breakfast, well into the afternoon. After Akechi's washed the dishes and tray it came on.]
It was unnecessary to do that.
But it was delicious. I haven't had a breakfast like that in years.
Sometimes nostalgia is a nice sensation to revisit.
Thank you for the meal.