Mikau: Hello! Thanks so much for taking a look at this! This one really speaks for itself, so I really don't have much to say about it. Other than…poet I am not, so just pretend that the poems I wrote as Kaito are deep and meaningful. ^.^; Thanks for your suspension of disbelief. Anyway, I think, as writers, this is a story that we can all identify with at least on some level. I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, I'd spend more time on the minor characters. I know Sensei's busy and he's got his hands full, but… I think they each deserve more attention and fleshing out. If they could each have their own exposition chapter, that would be cool.

…

Chapter One: Searching

I had come back to Japan searching for something. I wasn't quite sure what exactly, but I knew for certain that my life was lacking a basic element, something akin to air in terms of necessity to a human being.

The Kaitou Kid was, at the same time, like that last gasp of air a drowning man takes before he goes under and a sucker punch in the gut, knocking all the air out of you. He simultaneously lifted me out of my haze of boredom and depression while also managing to take me down a few pegs, sweeping my feet out from under me and putting me in my place.

He helped me overcome my pride by outwitting and publicly humiliating me. He gave my life a new purpose by confounding me, making me struggle, and actually challenging me. It had been so long since I had found an excuse to use, really use, the lump of grey matter between my ears. When everything had become so routine, he pulled me out of my rut. I had been tired and jaded and almost lifeless before, but he lit the fire in me again. He made me want to try and keep trying, even when that meant I got covered in tar and feathers and slime and neon paint and sparkles, confetti, and goo.

While there was no denying that Kid saved me from the isolated prison my life had become, I believe that he also inadvertently messed me up far worse than I had been before.

My therapist said that I was simply changing, learning to open up and care about others, put myself out there, put my feelings on the line. She said that the anxiety I was feeling, the self-doubt, was fear of change, fear of getting hurt, being rejected.

I wasn't so sure about all of that, but…all I knew was that I felt sick. There was a tightness in my chest like a housewife wringing the water out of a towel with a vengeance. I found myself short of breath. I suffered from heart palpitations and sweaty, clammy palms.

"I'm just not myself," I explained during one session, even though at that point I wasn't quite sure who "I" was. What I was supposed to be acting like.

"Have you ever tried writing about it?" she responded.

This puzzled me.

Writing? Writing about it? As in creative fiction? Or was she insinuating that I should keep a record, such as a diary, of my thoughts and feelings? I wasn't too keen on chronicling my experiences, and I told her so.

"No." She smiled and laughed as she reassured me. "I meant that you should try writing a story. A lot of people find it relaxing and therapeutic."

I reluctantly agreed to try.

At first, a lot of the time I spent staring at a blank screen. That painfully white word document gazed intently back at me like a fierce opponent in a chess match. It was my move. The clock was running down, and my nemesis was looking at me with eyes as dark and unfeeling as slate. It was mocking me, analyzing me.

The first week produced no fruit, but I tried again the following week, staring at the empty page as it laughed at me with its potential: "I could be the next great literary work. I could become the next Shakespeare, but you don't have the skill to accomplish it. I've got the potential; you don't."

I stared at the void as it taunted me.

And then I typed out a few words. Eventually, the words worked themselves into a sentence. It was almost like watching a lame boy hobble down the sidewalk, but after that, more letters joined together to form additional phrases. The punctuation fell into place after a while, and I was soon looking at a fledgling paragraph. The paragraphs gradually multiplied, and it was a bit like watching a plant grow. You could see it getting a little bigger day by day, but it took a dreadfully, almost insufferably long time to actually become anything of note.

Once finished with my little thousand word piece, I read over it and sighed. It was awful with very few redeeming qualities.

Regardless, I took it to my therapist and let her psycho-analyze it…me.

She read it with a straight face, intense lines of concentration forming little trenches in her forehead. She nodded as she read, but it was the nod of a doctor finally comprehending what was wrong with their patient. It wasn't a good nod. It was a nod of diagnosis, prognosis.

"It's rubbish." I cut her off before she could say anything. If I insulted it first, her criticism of my painstaking efforts wouldn't hurt as much. Two weeks of my life wasted wrestling with characters and word choice. "It's absolute rubbish."

"I wouldn't say that," she replied gently, always in that supportive tone of voice. She sounded like an air-headed cheerleader, always trying to encourage and cheer her patients on. "Unpolished maybe, but it's not bad. You have potential, and I think I understand you a little better now, Saguru-kun. Keep writing."

And so I did.

It came a little easier with practice. Week three was much more manageable than weeks one and two.

My character was a detective, struggling to catch a criminal mastermind while working on a variety of cases that all seemed to be separate at first but ended up being linked.

Initially, "Jon" lacked personality. My protagonist was rather cookie-cutter. He was based on Holmes, but…he was a tad dry and mundane. It wasn't until week four that I started experimenting, thinking up a backstory for him and then sewing it all in between the scenes dealing with the various crimes.

Week six brought in the police force. At the onset, they were incompetent, the inspector in particular, but my shrink and I had a long conversation about how even though the police weren't as smart as my detective Jon, that didn't necessarily make them stupid.

Week seven was spent thinking about the police and their own backstories. I had some rather meaningful conversations with the Kid Taskforce that week, trying to understand where they were coming from in hopes of finding some inspiration for my own police force in the story. After that, I could suddenly see the characters better, if that makes any sense. The police in my story weren't really as incompetent as I had originally portrayed them. They had pasts and presents and futures. They had hopes and dreams, shortcomings and strengths.

It made me look at the Taskforce in a new light too. Those men weren't dumb. They weren't as clever as myself or Kid, but they were far from imbeciles. Takano was a wonderful father with three strong daughters and a wife whom he loved dearly. Morimoto excelled at crosswords and always had a witty comeback. Nikaidou played tennis. Hoshino was going to be a father in a few months. Adachi had lost his mother at a young age and had helped his father raise his seven younger siblings. Kato went to night school and was trying to be a doctor. Even Nakamori-keibu had his admirable points. His wife had left him nearly twenty years ago, and he'd been doing his best to raise a fine young woman ever since. He was imperfect, but Aoko was his world. He loved his daughter fiercely, and he was trying to make a better, safer world for her sake.

These men weren't the best police officers ever, but they each had their own areas of expertise. They all deserved to be respected. They deserved my respect. Suddenly I felt ashamed for having looked down upon them for so long.

In the second month of my little writing project, Adelaide appeared.

I had been typing away into the wee hours of the morning one Friday night, sitting at my desk in my flannel pjs with my reading glasses sitting atop the bridge of my nose, when she snuck up behind me and tapped on my shoulder. She let out a highly amused snicker when I jumped.

I stopped, pausing to read the words on my screen: "Unbeknownst to Jon, there was another fighting the same evil as he: Adelaide. Only…the fiery, redheaded trickster went about the task in her own way. A bit of a modern-day Lupin, Adelaide was a thief."

I frowned. Since when did my detective story involve a thief? And a vigilante thief at that!

With a snort, I began to erase what I had written, but…I could feel her gaze on me: intense stargazer lily eyes. Adelaide wouldn't allow herself to be pushed aside now that she had made her presence known to me. Adelaide had been fighting against the same villain that Jon had, only Adelaide was doing it from the other side of the law. Adelaide was insistent and stubborn. She would not be denied.

And so Adelaide hijacked the plot.

My therapist's eyes widened as she read the part where Adelaide, scantily clad in an outfit reminiscent of Disney's Jasmine, invited herself into Jon's bedroom to announce her presence and challenge him directly.

"I like her," the doctor chuckled after she'd finished. "I think this is good, Saguru-kun. This is really good! You're making a lot of progress!"

I blinked at her, not believing it for a minute. "…You…think it's good?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "YES. This is wonderful! I want you to keep exploring this thief and her relationship with you—with Jon, I mean. Focus on the sexual tension between them and Jon's trouble comprehending her motives. See if you can't have them come to some kind of understanding."

"But she's a thief," I stated plainly. "They can't just…they can't be friends like that. They can't have any kind of relationship. It's not…there's decorum to be considered. This is improper. Jon could…Jon could get in a lot of trouble with the police."

"But he likes her," my therapist stressed. "And she's not a bad person. Look at all of the people that Adelaide helps."

I sighed as I scratched my head. "Very well. I'll…I'll work with her. I'll see what I can do with her."

The following week, Jon and Adelaide met for dinner in a very fancy restaurant. He wore an expensive suit—the blue one with the striped shirt underneath it—and she…she wore practically nothing at all—a white, arguably see-through dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up to the top of her thigh.

More bizarre than the meeting between detective and thief itself was what happened afterwards. They were in the elevator together heading down to the lobby of the hotel where they had eaten dinner, and, out of nowhere, Jon's tie became loose and his shirt unbuttoned. His hands were tentatively exploring Adelaide's body as she stole the breath straight out of his lungs.

Someone hit the stop button, and the next thing I knew, my characters were all over each other in unacceptable states of undress, gasping and laughing and sighing and sucking and touching places they had no business touching!

I stared at the screen in horror, reading the words a third time and turning Valentine's Day red. I couldn't believe it. I had written smut. Me! Smut! And, worse yet, smut essentially between myself and the Kaitou Kid whom the characters had been modeled after.

I was tempted to erase it and pretend that it had never happened, but…I really wanted to talk about all this with my therapist. I wanted Katsuragi-sensei to tell me that, no, just because I had written a graphic scene between my fictional detective and thief did not mean that I secretly had a thing for the real thief in my life. I needed her to tell me that I did not subconsciously long to have sex with Kuroba Kaito in an elevator.

I took the manuscript to her that Monday and tried not to shrivel up and die of mortification as she read it over. I watched her face intently for the smallest micro-expression like a jaguar on the prowl. I tensed every time her eyes widened in surprise. I shuddered every time her mouth made a little "o" shape.

But she didn't seem disgusted by my work. It didn't look like she was going to laugh at me or mock me. She merely appeared to be surprised.

"Well." She finally broke the unbearable silence. "You certainly did what I told you and explored the sexual tension between the two."

"I didn't mean to—" I rushed to explain but just as quickly aborted my attempts, knowing that they were meaningless. I didn't need to defend myself to her.

I took a deep breath and asked, "Sensei, I…didn't mean to write all this. And so…I was just pondering whether or not I should be concerned about…if I might have any feelings that I myself am unaware of for…"

"Well," she started thoughtfully. "It certainly could mean that. After all, like dreams, our writings are a look into our subconscious; that's why I encourage so many of my patients to write. It allows me to see where the real problems are, and it's truly beneficial for the patient as well. Writing serves as an outlet for all of the things they've been holding in. It allows them to process those painful experiences of the past and overcome them, become master of them by using those memories in their writings. It allows them to own their feelings and gain acceptance. That could very well be what's happening with you. It's feasible that you could have feelings for Kid."

I could feel the color draining from my face as my body suddenly went cold. My stomach began to churn, and the edges of my vision blurred.

Katsuragi-sensei, observing my visible distress, quickly continued. "But! And this really depends on how you feel about Jung and Freud and all them, but…there's a school of thought that says that if you dream about having sex with someone, it's really more about getting closer to them, not the actual physical act."

I blinked and replied wryly, "So…according to Freud, the fact that I like listening to jazz means that I want to have sex with my mother, but if I actually dream about having sex with my mother, that only means that I want to spend more time having biscuits and tea and talking about jazz music with her?"

Katsuragi smiled sheepishly. "Well…which would you rather it be? Do you want the fact that you wrote smut between yourself and Kid to mean that you want to make friends? Or do you want it to mean that you want to make love to him?"

I pursed my lips and admitted, "Point taken."

It was quiet for a bit, and then she inquired, "So…how's all this going to end between Jon and Adelaide?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you left the scene half-finished with them still in the elevator with their clothes falling off. Are they going to get a room at the hotel, or is one of them going to call it quits? How's it all going to end? If they do go through with it, I expect Jon will be feeling some remorse in the morning if he wakes up alone, but…if she stays and he gets to see her sleeping beside him peacefully…if they get to talk…it all depends on how you plan on making him fall in love with her."

"I-In love?" I choked.

"Yes, of course," she chuckled. "Regardless of your feelings for Kid, Jon is in love with Adelaide…or at least infatuated with her. If they stop halfway, he's still going to think about making out in the elevator. It's going to drive him crazy until he finally admits that she's all that he thinks about and that he's in love with her. If they go through with it and sleep with each other, there are going to be consequences that will need to be addressed, so…at least if they do sleep together and she stays the night they'll get to talk the next morning. I think that's the most important thing for their relationship, for any relationship, coming to understand each other, I mean. And in their case, they're actually fighting the same evil, so…I think it would do them a world of good to understand."

I listened closely to her words, my mind spinning a little as I considered how on earth I was to pull it off. When she'd finished, the only real question I had was, "But…how am I to write a sex scene when I have no experience?"

Katsuragi-sensei shrugged. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you have much experience making out in elevators either, and you were able to write that scene just fine. My suggestion is to just imagine what it would be like. You know the mechanics, right? So use your imagination. What would you want it to be like? How would you want it to feel?"

At this point my face was completely magenta, and I could feel a distinct ringing in my ears that was telling me I was about to pass out from a fried brain.

"R-Right," I managed to squeak, giving her a bow of thanks as I scampered out of there.

That whole night I thought about it, seriously debating the pros and cons of every situation. I took out sheets and sheets of paper and scribbled all over them ideas that were painstakingly molded into outlines.

The covers on my bed remained cold and undisturbed that night, and by the break of day that next morning I had three separate roads that my story could take.

A) Jon came to his senses and put a stop to the funny business in the elevator only to later pine after Adelaide and lose sleep over the what ifs. Down that road lay depression and self-loathing that finally culminated in another torrid make-out session ending in copulation.

It didn't take me long to rule out Route A. It was too angsty and interfered with Jon's work. Plus…I really didn't want to write self-loathing. I had come from self-loathing, and there was not yet enough distance between us that I would feel comfortable revisiting those dark recesses of my mind.

I had made Jon out to be a plucky, optimistic young man possessing a past checkered with both good and bad experiences, times of joy and times of trouble. There were periods of hardship, but it had always been manageable for Jon. I didn't want Jon to be angsty.

Route B entailed the couple getting a room for the evening and having intercourse, but Adelaide slipped away in the night, leaving Jon to wake up alone.

I thought of how I would feel if, after I had given myself heart and body to Kuroba, he'd deserted me without any apology or explanation. I would likely feel used, alone, and depressed. I would doubt myself and what I had done. I'd blame myself, rebuke myself. I'd be ashamed, and I wouldn't be able to face him anymore.

I didn't want that for Jon, and so Route C won out. And I spent the next few days thinking about how in the world I was going to describe an act in which I had never partaken.

I did research. I read many a "For Dummies" book and watched trashy dramas. And then I tried to reconfigure what I had seen and read into something that would work for Adelaide and Jon.

I kept in mind Katsuragi-sensei's words about how I would want it to be, how I would want it to feel, and this…this was the hard, uncomfortable part. I had never put much thought to joining my body with another's. I'd never been delusional enough to think that anyone would ever want me, so…I had never bothered with thoughts of sex like other young men had. Growing up, I had always thought that my peers would go on to have relationships, girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, children (legitimate and not so much), so they were the ones that needed to concern themselves with such things. I would always be alone, so…why bother fantasizing about the unattainable?

But now…this was indescribably awkward, especially when I considered that my partner was essentially Kuroba. Now, whenever I looked at him, I saw visions of bed sheets, exposed flesh, and half-lidded indigo eyes. I heard phantom laughter, little mewls, and sighs of satisfaction.

That Thursday Kuroba was fliting about the classroom, leading the usual third period mop chase when a slight misstep sent him into an unplanned back handspring off of my desk. As he whirled by, I caught a whiff of vanilla, and now even his scent was haunting me as I poetically crafted our fictional first time.

It was especially awkward because I didn't know him very well, and what I did know of the persona he projected, I didn't like. And then there was the fact that I was fairly certain that I did not entertain those kinds of feelings for Kuroba. I was not interested in having that kind of relationship. At least I didn't believe so.

That next Monday I turned in my sordid assignment and sat with my face buried in one of the throw pillows while she read it.

"Come on, Saguru-kun," she laughed softly. "It's okay. I'm your counselor. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"There's bloody well everything to be ashamed of!" I retorted, trying to refrain from going into the fetal position. "I've spent the past week obsessing over sleeping with the enemy! I can't even look at him without turning cerise, and it's…it's horrible, that's what it is. It's horrible, and it's indecent."

"This is actually pretty good for someone who's never had sex before," she confided, chuckling as I dropped the pillow and gaped at her. "Seriously, Saguru-kun. You're a good writer. You should publish this once it's finished, but, for now, how about posting it online on a writer's forum or something?"

I continued to stare, trying to get my thoughts together. After a straight minute, all I could come up with was a befuddled, "What?"

She smiled that encouraging, cheerleader smile and replied, "I know a good site, if you're interested. I'll write it down for you, but I think it would be good if you got some feedback from others."

She took a clean sheet of paper, scribbled something, and handed it to me. "This week I want you to go back through what you've written and edit it so that it's polished and ready to be posted. That will give you more time to think about the morning after scene too. If you feel up to it, go ahead and post the first chapter, and then we can talk about the comments you get next week. How does that sound?"

I chewed on my lip and thought about it. "Terrifying. What if they don't like it?"

"Saguru-kun, it's good. Most people are going to like it. People are very interested in stories about murder and intrigue. You've got a good plot, and the characters have become very realistic and fleshed out. Jon is sympathetic and engaging. Adelaide is simply a gem. You've put a lot of thought and effort into this, Saguru-kun, and they'll be able to tell.

"Most people on the site leave pretty general comments saying that they enjoyed the chapter and are excited for the next one. They'll tell you that you did a good job, and I think that that'll be good for you, Saguru-kun. The only people that leave negative reviews are the ones that are jealous of your ability, so keep that in mind, if you do get any negative comments."

"You're sure about this?" I wasn't so certain. This sounded terrible.

"Oh, positive," she laughed. "This will be good for you. You might get some comments with some constructive criticism, but you should take that as a compliment. Someone thought highly enough of your work that they took the time, time out of their lives, their busy schedules, to read your story thoroughly and give you their honest opinions. You know how highly people value their time, Saguru-kun, so if you do get some constructive criticism, you should be glad."

"…Okay," I finally replied.

"Okay?" She smiled kindly, almost lovingly, like how I imagined a mother might look at her child. My mother had never looked at me like that. Baaya had. Good, old Baaya. It was a smile that told me Katsuragi-sensei wanted me to succeed. More than that, it told me that she believed in me.

"Okay," I repeated a little more strongly this time, starting to think that maybe this would be good after all.

…

That night I poked around on the site she had given me, looking at other people's stories and the comments they had received. It seemed to be just as Katsuragi-sensei had said. The majority of the comments were about how the readers had liked the story or the characters or a certain line and what not. There were very few criticisms or negative reviews, and when constructive criticism was given, it was very respectful and honest. It wasn't malicious in the least bit, and it did a good job of balancing the comments about what could have been better with praise of what had been good and enjoyable.

Fingers trembling with excitement as much as apprehension, I made an account with "SearchingSherrinford" as my penname. Thus christened, I went back and left some reviews on the stories I had read and really enjoyed. I refrained from commenting on grammar, usage, and (in the handful of detective/police stories I had read) the inaccurate portrayals of crime scene procedure. I figured that I'd save that for the site's senior members and people who could handle constructive criticism themselves. I didn't want to leave any comments that I myself would not want to receive, so I just started off with compliments and praise for the time being.

In my exploration, I came across one author who, frankly, dazzled me: Pierrot, The Fool's Mask. He (for I am assuming it was a he) mostly did poetry which, and I told him so, really wasn't my usual cup of tea, but his wording and the imagery, the feelings that his work conjured up in me were just…really quite indescribable. He painted clear pictures for me of pain and suffering, the difficulty of not being understood, of showing the world a mask and having it accepted without a second thought about who "you" really are. He was quite talented, very clever, and I told him so…maybe a little too enthusiastically, but…

There was this one poem that really hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. It was one of his earlier works and, okay, maybe not one of his most artful or evocative, but I could relate. I could feel it because I had felt it before. The poem was entitled "Fake".

Forever fooled, the world sees only what I wish:

Asmiling face, a cheerful disposition, mischief and magic.

Knowing nothing of what's really on the inside, they accept "me".

Even my "friends" are deceived, but reality glowers at me from the mirror, screaming:

!

It was carefully handwritten in masterful calligraphy reminiscent of medieval monks in their hermitages painstakingly making illuminated copies of the Bible…. And at the same time, they were much like the doodles of young maidens in love, curlicue-ing their crush's name on the pages of their notebooks where chemistry notes were supposed to go. Regardless, it was gorgeous and detailed. The i's were dotted fancifully with stars and smiley faces as befitting while "mischief" seemed to smirk playfully and the word "magic" was adorned with enchanting sparkles. But then the embellishments turned somber with sad faces and tears and wilting flowers. Things became almost sinister as the "o" in "glowers" did indeed glower like the devil himself staring you down from the pits of Hell. Somehow he got "screaming" to resemble the iconic Scream, leaving the reader…leaving me feeling chilled.

I wondered at the use of the colon and that lone exclamation point for a while until it dawned on me to look at the first letter of each line, larger and more elaborate than the rest that followed. Those four letters spelled out a gutting self-condemnation.

And I felt it.

FAKE!

I had felt it. The Hakuba Saguru that society saw…I looked at him in the mirror and denounced him just as Pierrot, The Fool's Mask had described in the poem. I was a faker too. Or…at least I had been. Kid had done much to humble me, to take me down a notch in society's eyes. Secretly, I thanked him for that. It had been freeing to be unmasked.

I left Pierrot a review, telling him how moving it had been for me to read his work, how I could really relate. I expressed my appreciation for his artistry with the mixture of literary and visual art, and I thanked him earnestly for sharing something so personal. I let him know that it had given me the courage to publish my own work.

I didn't think about it much after I shut my computer down for the night. The next day I spent class time going over chapter one, fine-tuning it so that it might be ready for the light of day by that evening, but Kuroba and Aoko-kun got into a heated argument (the same one as always about Kid and Nakamori-keibu) during Calculous, and my focus was disturbed as my desk was upset. The perils of sitting directly behind the class clown.

Class stopped as Aoko-kun started screaming at the top of her lungs, tears coming to her eyes as she shrieked at Kuroba, calling him a traitor and all manner of awful things. She yelled about how Kid kept her father away and how horrible it had been growing up and how bad it was now having her dad gone when her mother had already left them, how alone she felt and how much she hated Kid for ruining her family.

And suddenly Kuroba wasn't laughing or smiling or jesting anymore. He looked rather floored, honestly. And I would be too if the girl I fancied were literally screaming all of those horrible things at me.

I tried not to look at Kuroba in order to give him some privacy. How absolutely gutted he must have felt having his alter ego accused of destroying his beloved's happiness.

…

When I got home that night, before continuing my editing venture, I got on the site to check to see if Pierrot had posted anything new. Before I got too terribly far, I noticed that I had a PM. From Pierrot.

My heart leapt. It was a reply to my review! But… What if he didn't think I had been sincere?! What if he hadn't liked what I'd said?! What if I sounded like a nerd gushing over him like that?! It had been almost a year since he'd written that poem; what if he was over those feelings by now?! What if he looked back at his early writings and shook his head, rolling his eyes at his naivety and lack of skill?! What if he brushed off my praise?!

"And what if he'd just written to say thank you?" my mind reasoned with me.

Taking a deep, slow inhale, I clicked on the PM. It took me a moment to gather the courage to read it, but when I did…I was so, so glad that I had sent him that review.

"Hey there, Searching!" it started off warmly. I could almost hear the friendly chuckle to his voice. "Or do you prefer Sherry? Anyway, I'm Mask. Nice to meet you. I just wanted to say thanks for taking a minute to read my work. Seriously, I'm really grateful, you spending time you could have been, I don't know, curing cancer or something, reading my poem. I'm really glad you liked it so much.

"I really do want to thank you. I kind of had a sucky day, and reading your comments really brightened it up. I still feel like a fake sometimes…a lot, actually, but it's good to know I'm not the only one out there, so thanks right back atcha for your honesty.

"Best of luck to you in your own writing. You expressed yourself very well in your review, and I liked the way you phrased things. Your word choice is really good, so I'm excited to see what kind of surprises your work has in store. What genre do you write? Let me guess…detective fiction? Judging by your handle, anyway.

"I'm more of a Leblanc lover than a Doyle devotee, honestly, but I have to admit that I love a good detective story. Kudo-sensei is pretty good, and recently I've become enamored of Tantei Red Jacket. I adored the Kendaichi Casefiles when I was younger, and Akechi and Nijuumensou have always been favorites, but… Haha. Sorry. Getting off topic. ^.^;

"But, hey. Seriously, good luck to you. I'll keep an eye out for your work. Thanks again!

-K. (aka: Mask)"

I was positively elated. Not only had an author that I admired encouraged me, but he was also a fan of detective stories. He had pretty good taste too. Even though I wasn't a huge fan of the Modern Day Lupin, I did enjoy Maurice Leblanc's work. His writing was so clever, and his characters were begrudgingly likeable.

I was terribly excited to get to know "Mask" better. I typed out an enthusiastic reply, thanking him profusely for his kind words and assuring him that it was no trouble taking the time out to read his work and leave my comments. He really was talented, and I found his style intriguing, enchanting.

I told him that, yes, I was a mystery writer, but my present work was one of suspense and drama…and a bit of a budding romance between my detective and a vigilante thief.

And then I continued the conversation he had started about detectives and thieves.

I was very much looking forward to further discussions with my new prospective friend. It would mean a lot to me to have someone with whom I could have conversations of note, and I desperately longed for someone with whom I could share the real me.

…

By the by, Mask had posted a new poem, and it was entitled "Apocalypse".

With a word from her,

m

y

w

o

r

l

d

EXPLODES.

Someone had had a fight with their girlfriend.

My mind immediately flashed to the scene between Kuroba and Aoko-kun in class today, but I quickly shook it off. It was impossible. There was no way. Kuroba wasn't a poet…but Kid was, and Kid was Kuroba was…no. Coincidence. Obsession with target. Overthinking. Bad Saguru.

…But, again, this poem spoke galaxies into existence with its powerful visual nature. "Her", whoever she was, was the goddess of Mask's religion. You could see how he worshiped her in the little hearts, roses, and stars surrounding the pronoun.

The words, "my world" tumbled down the page like Alice down the rabbit hole. You could hear the whoosh of the wind as they fell like a piano out of a window or an anvil in the old cartoons. Lines depicting rushing air were drawn next to the letters.

Bringing home the point and all the emotions that came with it, the "o" in "world" was replaced by a heart cracked down the middle into two, gut-wrenching pieces.

You could see the impact of "EXPLODES", the dent it had made when it hit the ground like an atom bomb and the mushroom cloud left in its wake.

Apocalypse indeed.

…

Mikau: Well, there's the first half, and the second should be out next weekend. I want to sincerely thank you for reading. As you can see, this time the subject is a little more…personal, close to home. Anyway, it'd mean a lot to me if you could send in some feedback if you have time. Thank you so much for your support and encouragement!