Case of the Birthday Blues
L Lawliet
The birthday cake sat barely touched.
A single flickering candle melted into the frosting, its soft glow casting long shadows across the dimly lit room. L Lawliet sat cross-legged in a chair, his hands tucked near his mouth as he stared at the woman he loved. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t angry. She just looked… tired.
"What's wrong? You've hardly touched any of your cake." He mumbled, mouth full of cake.
“I got the birthday blues." She responded. She paused for a moment before continuing, "Like I'm not sad to be getting older nor do I feel I've done nothing with my life. It's more like a ‘why am I still here?' sadness. I feel I've ran my course and death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to still be here.”
L’s already large eyes somehow widened more. Internally, it was like an alarm went off—sirens, blinking red lights, warning signals. But outwardly, he remained eerily calm, his thumb gently brushing his bottom lip.
He was quiet for too long.
Not because he didn’t care—no, that was the problem. He cared too much, and emotional honesty didn’t come naturally to him. His mind tried to file her statement under logic, but it resisted—this wasn’t logic. This was pain.
“I see.”
His voice was quiet, almost flat, but his fingers twitched—nervous energy he didn’t know how to expend.
“You know,” he began, eyes shifting to the candlelight as if it helped him form the words, “I don’t believe in fate. But I do believe in data. Probabilities. Statistics. I’ve often calculated how long I’d live based on my habits. And I’ve thought, many times, that I wouldn’t last this long either.” He turned back to her. “But here I am. Here you are.”
He stood slowly, walking to her with soft, deliberate steps, then crouched in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet like he always did. He looked up at her as though she were the only variable that mattered now.
“You feeling this way isn’t wrong. It’s not irrational. But it is… heartbreaking.” He tilted his head, brows knitting. “Not just because I don’t want to lose you. But because you’re one of the few people who has made my life feel more real. Like I’m not just some ghost solving crimes in a dark room.”
A pause.
He reached up, awkwardly, and took her hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles.
“Maybe you don’t feel like you’re meant to still be here. But I am glad you are.”
He wasn’t good at this. He knew it. His affection was usually masked in odd habits, sugar offerings, long silences filled with quiet company. But this—this was something he couldn’t ignore.
“Stay,” he said softly. “Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it feels surreal. You haven’t run your course. Not to me.”
The candle finally burned out behind them.
But in his eyes, there was light enough for both of them.
Light Yagami
The words hit Light like a cold splash of water.
Not because he didn’t expect them—he’d noticed her demeanor all day: the distant gaze, the barely touched slice of cake, the smile that never quite reached her eyes. But hearing her say it aloud, with such brutal honesty, forced a crack in the perfect image of the world he tried so hard to control.
"I just feel like, why am I still here. I didn't think I'd make it this far. It doesn't feel real. I feel death is overdue. Like I'm not supposed to still be here."
He stared at her in silence, his fingers laced neatly in his lap. Behind his calm expression, his mind was racing—not with judgment, not even with solutions, but with something deeper. Something heavier.
He cared.
And that complicated everything.
Light rose from his seat and walked slowly to her side, every movement precise, like he was walking through a delicate equation. He sat beside her—not too close, not too far. Just enough.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said softly. Not coldly. Not dismissively. Just…honestly. “But I’m glad you told me.”
He studied her profile—the way her eyes didn’t meet his, the weight in her posture. For someone who usually had a perfect answer for everything, he found himself grasping for the right words. This wasn’t a debate. It wasn’t a test. It was someone he loved confronting something beyond logic.
“Death is not overdue. You’re not a mistake in the timeline,” he said, voice gaining a quiet firmness. “You’re here because you're meant to be. Even if you can’t see it right now.”
She looked down, a flicker of emotion tightening her expression, and Light—Light Yagami, who could bluff entire governments—felt his own façade threaten to slip.
“You’ve impacted more lives than you realize,” he added. “You’ve impacted mine. Do you know how rare that is?” A soft breath. “You're the one constant I can’t control, and I don’t want to. I want you here. Not as a piece in my plans. As…you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.
Then, in a move uncharacteristic for someone as carefully composed as him, Light reached out and gently pulled her into his arms. Not possessively. Not with motive. Just…genuine warmth. Something human. Something real.
“You haven’t ran your course,” he whispered into her hair. “You’ve just started writing the part that actually matters. And I’ll be here for all of it—if you let me.”
He held her until the air felt a little lighter. Until the weight of the words she spoke didn’t feel quite so heavy. And for once, Light Yagami wasn’t thinking ten steps ahead. He was just there.
With her.
Mihael Keehl
The birthday candle was still burning.
One single flame. Flickering. Fragile.
Mello leaned back in his chair, leather jacket creaking as he slouched, one boot resting on the table. He was smirking about something, probably teasing her about getting "old," when she said it.
"I think I got the birthday blues." She paused, looking down at her fidgeting hands. "Like not because I'm 'getting old'. But because why am I still here. I didn't think I'd make it this far. It doesn't feel real. Like I've ran my course. Like death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here still."
And just like that, the smirk died on his lips.
He sat up slowly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, not exactly, but in that fierce, calculating way Mello had when something mattered. He studied her face like it was a puzzle he didn’t know how to fix.
“The hell kind of thing is that to say?” he said, not harshly—but like it physically hurt him to hear it.
She looked down, ashamed.
He stood up, chair scraping against the floor. Then, without thinking, he crossed the space and dropped to one knee in front of her, grabbing her hands, rough fingers closing around her trembling ones.
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare say that like your time’s already up.” His voice was low, raw, like smoke catching in his throat. “I’ve watched people burn out way too fast. People who had so much left. And yeah, maybe life doesn’t always make sense. Maybe we weren’t supposed to last this long.”
His eyes locked on hers, fierce and blazing.
“But you’re here. You’re here. And you sure as hell didn’t survive all the shit you’ve been through just to fade out like that. Your time's not overdue. You’re unfinished.”
He brought one of her hands to his lips and kissed her hand, fierce and desperate, like he could keep her grounded with touch alone.
“You think you’ve ran your course? Then I guess you don’t know how much you’ve done for me. I’m still here because of you. Because I had someone who made this twisted world a little less cold.”
He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing hard, trying to slow the storm building in his chest.
“You don’t get to check out early. Not while I’m still here. Not while I need you.”
They stayed like that for a long time—his hands tight around hers, her eyes wet with quiet tears.
Finally, Mello broke the silence with a crooked, exhausted smile.
“You wanna feel alive again? Fine. We’ll go somewhere. Do something reckless. Eat something illegal in three countries. I don’t care. Just… don’t leave me in the dark, okay?”
And for once, she smiled—just a little.
And for Mello, that was enough.
Mail Jeevas
The glow from the TV screen painted the room in shifting blue light.
Video game sounds echoed softly, and the smell of smoke lingered in the air, curling like thoughts Matt didn’t want to speak out loud.
She was curled beside him on the couch, knees tucked up, a blanket draped over her legs. It was supposed to be a chill birthday. Games, junk food, peace.
Then she sat up, looking down at the ground, and she said it.
"Matt." Pause. "I think I got a case of the birthday blues." Another pause. "Like I'm not sad that I'm getting older or haven't done anything with my life or anything like that. I just feel like I wouldn't make it this far. Like why am I still here? I feel I've ran my course. Like death is overdue. Like I shouldn't be here still."
Matt didn’t even pause the game.
He just… set the controller down. Let the character idle on screen. He sat there for a second, leaning back, processing it.
“…Shit.”
He muttered it like a confession. Not annoyed. Not shocked. Just... hurting. Quietly.
He looked at her, really looked, goggles pushed up into his messy red hair, eyes bare for once. Tired. Honest.
“I don’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like some corny Hallmark card,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “But that—that hit me. More than I want to admit.”
A beat passed.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling.
“You know, I’ve thought that too.” His voice was soft, barely above the hum of the game. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… wondering if I’ve already peaked. If this world was never built for someone like me to last.” He glanced over at her. “But then you showed up.”
He turned toward her fully now, sliding down to the floor to sit cross-legged in front of the couch, facing her.
“You don’t have to feel okay right now. Or fake it. But don’t you dare think you’ve already run your course, alright? That’s not how this works.”
He took her hand and held it between both of his, thumbs brushing her knuckles absentmindedly.
“You’re still here. That means something. That means everything to me.”
The silence after that was warm, heavy with meaning.
Then, in classic Matt fashion, he added:
“Also, if death was overdue, trust me, I’d have hacked the schedule and rerouted it.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “You’re not going anywhere, babe. Not unless we go together in a blaze of glory with, like, lasers and fire and shit.”
She laughed—softly, but it was real. And that was all he wanted.
He tugged her down gently, resting his head in her lap, cigarette still behind his ear, and looked up at her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“You don’t have to be sure about why you’re still here. I’ll be sure enough for both of us.”
Nate River
The room was quiet, save for the soft click-click of plastic blocks being stacked on the white floor. Near sat cross-legged, his usual expression of focused detachment on his pale face. But as soon as she spoke, his hands stilled mid-motion.
"I got the birthday blues." She mused more to herself than to him. However, upon noticing she had caught his attention, she elaborated "I'm not sad that I'm getting older. I'm sad because why am I still here. I feel I've ran my course and death is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here."
His fingers slowly lowered the block.
Silence. Not the cold kind. The thoughtful kind.
Near didn’t immediately meet her eyes. He never was good with direct contact. But his entire body shifted ever so slightly toward her—an almost imperceptible signal that she now had all his attention.
“I see,” he said softly. His voice was calm as always, but the edge of his tone was gentler than usual. “I’ve thought about that too. Not in the same way, perhaps, but… about the strangeness of still being here when others are not. About the feeling that survival can be arbitrary.”
A pause.
He picked up a small white knight from his nearby chessboard and turned it over in his hand.
“You feel like your presence is a mistake in a system that’s already moved on. But I would argue—very logically, I might add—that your continued existence disrupts that system in a necessary way.” He looked toward her, just briefly. “You matter, not because you're meant to survive. But because you did, and you kept shaping the world around you—mine included.”
His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind his ear.
“People often associate emotion with chaos. But feelings like this—hopelessness, detachment—they’re not signs of irrationality. They’re signs of being aware. Aware of time. Of loss. Of meaning.” He tilted his head. “And those who are aware… tend to have more to give than they realize.”
Near set the chess piece down and rose quietly, padding across the room to sit beside her. He didn't touch her—he rarely initiated physical contact—but his closeness was deliberate. Reassuring.
She turned toward him, and for a moment he held her gaze.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply. No theatrics. No grand gestures. Just the truth, offered plainly.
They sat in silence again, but this time it was different. Shared.
Near picked up a blank puzzle piece and held it out. “If you like, we can build something. Something that exists only because you're here.”
And quietly, without saying anything more, he waited for her hand to reach out and take it.
Misa Amane
The apartment was dressed in glitter and balloons.
Streamers clung to the walls like hope trying too hard, and a pink-frosted cake sat untouched on the table, its candles melted halfway down. Misa Amane, in her frilly black dress, had tried so hard to make it special. Cute. Perfect.
And then she heard it.
"I'm sorry, Misa. I know you put a lot of work into making today special, but I got the birthday blues." She paused. "Like why am I still here? It doesn't feel real. I feel like my time is overdue. Like I'm not meant to be here anymore."
Misa froze.
She stared at her girlfriend like she’d just confessed something unthinkable—like the world had tilted, and for once, Misa didn’t know how to smile it away.
“W-What?” she breathed, her voice cracking on the edges of the word. “You feel like you’re not meant to be here?”
There were tears in her eyes before she even realized she was crying. She dropped the sparkler she was holding, its tiny fire fizzling out on the floor with a sad hiss.
She crossed the room in two fast steps, cupping her girlfriend’s face in trembling hands.
“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’ve already lost too many people I love. I can’t—” Her voice broke. She sniffed, trying to gather herself. “I can’t lose you too."
Her mascara smudged, but she didn’t care. She pulled her girlfriend close and held her like she was trying to shield her from death itself.
“I know what it feels like to think the world should’ve ended for you already,” she whispered. “I’ve felt that too. After my parents. After Light…” She trailed off, her arms tightening. “But you’re here. You’re here, and you’re breathing, and you’re real, and you’re mine. That’s not a mistake. That’s a miracle.”
She pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, her own lined with red but full of fire.
“You make my life better. Just by being in it. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be anyone special. Just you is enough. Always.”
And then, in classic Misa fashion, she forced a wobbly smile.
“Besides, I worked really hard on this cake, and you have to stay alive at least long enough to eat one bite, okay?”
Her girlfriend gave a soft, teary laugh. Misa’s smile widened, more genuine now, though her eyes still glistened.
She leaned her forehead against hers.
“You don’t owe the world a reason to stay. But I hope you’ll stay anyway. Because I’m here. And I love you. And I need you more than I ever thought I could need someone.”
They held each other, cake forgotten, candles long gone.
But the light between them was still burning.
