For a long time, when Mikan panicked, she had no one to comfort her.
In fact, she had the opposite- people who seemed determined to making her crying, hyperventilating sobs even more intense. There was a tangible cruelty in her life; people seemed determined to make her hell worse and worse, and there was no love to be found.
Until Junko Enoshima.
When Mikan sobbed, Junko held her in her arms, against her chest, cradling her. She would run her fingers through her matted hair, detangling it when Mikan often sees no point; humming a soothing sound and rocking her back and forth. Then, careful and lovely, she would braid her hair, braid flowers into it, when they were out on the grass; she would pluck the weeds straight out of the ground and call them wonderful .
(Sometimes Mikan felt like a weed. Hated by all except her, and she came along and picked her straight from the ground, as innocent and loving as child who did not know she was a weed, who only saw a flower—)
And slowly, surely, her voice would soothe her, the gentle rumble of her soft cadence as she cradled her close and pressed kisses to her temples, a murmur of love that she would whisper to her intimate, and Mikan would calm, soothed, in her arms.
But Junko Enoshima isn't here: she's waving on her screen, eyes closed and smile bright, standing on that chair with excitement fizzling in her body language, joy caught in her teeth.
The world is ending. Her world is ending. Junko Enoshima is smiling as she marches straight to her death. Who cares about the world? Mikan never has. When it ended, when Junko ended it hand in hand with her, Mikan had merely smiled at her child-like joy, her child-like destruction, and blushed at the grin she aimed at her as everything went up in flames. Junko was her world; she could care less for anything outside her—but now, but now, she feels what the people they trampled must have: now she truly knows what apocalyptic means. The world is ending—for real this time—because Mikan's world is ending; because Junko is ending; and Junko is the only thing that has ever mattered.
Hyperventilating is an understatement; panic lives in Mikan's bones, but right now, all she is is panic—she cannot breathe, and the world held its breath with her. To them, this was a good thing; her beloved dying, something to celebrate in the streets—to Mikan? It's the worst thing that has ever happened to her, and ever will. She has never known joy before Junko; to have it, and then to have it taken away? It's almost worse than if she had never known it.
But she doesn't regret Junko. Not a moment. She wouldn't have changed a thing, except she would have, because something she did has lead to this: Junko Enoshima, grinning as she died. They are killing her. (She is leaving her.) Anger blinds her, but she can't do anything but sob; if she could, she would beg, she would plead, but Junko Enoshima cannot hear her—maybe she's not even thinking of her, when she winks at the camera; or maybe she is.
Maybe this despair is her final gift to her.
It is one Mikan wants to reject. She wants to scream, but she cannot get enough air to. She didn't need this despair; she only cared about such things because Junko did—to Mikan, what's mattered most has always been love . She didn't want this despair; all she needed, all she wanted, was Junko's lips on hers, was Junko's hand in hers, was Junko . That's all, that’s all she's ever wanted. That's what she needs ; without her, evidently , she cannot even breathe .
She can hardly see her through her tears, and that is also a sin, a crime, because these are her last moments and Mikan owes it to her to witness. She's witnessed so much of Junko Enoshima; she cannot miss her death. But if she looks, will her death be all she remembers, all she knows? Junko, reduced down to her dying moments, more of an idea than a person—truly becoming “despair” for the last and final time. Will she forget those kisses, those flowers, those embraces, and taste only ash? Will she choke on her—the memories of her? Is she choking now, sobs clogging her throat, on her aftertaste? Will Junko Enoshima become a martyr for despair—will the thought of her only bring despair? Mikan doesn't want that; there was so much to Junko, so much more to her than her death—Mikan wants to remember her life, how vibrant she was, how before now when Mikan thought of “alive” she thought of her —she doesn't want this despair. She doesn't want this despair.
But isn't that, in and of itself, a rejection of who Junko Enoshima is at her core?
When the press comes down, Junko looks bored.
When the press comes down, Mikan looks broken.
(That's because she is.)
She cannot take her pain; she cannot breathe; looking at the smear of blood that used to be her lover, Mikan Tsumiki faints.
(They killed her. She killed herself. Mikan has forgiven Junko for everything, but she cannot forgive this—not herself, not her lover, not the world who killed her—because they did kill her—everyday they killed her more and more—they pushed her to this— she won't ever forgive them—
And for the first time in a long time, Mikan Tsumiki despairs.)
(When she wakes up, an old lady is tending to her. Wet washcloth in hand, laughter lines as she smiles in relief as she awakens. She tells her to lift her chin up. “It gets better,” she says. “It has to. After all—” and she laughed, joyous and relieved, “—The mastermind is dead, dear.”
Mikan slits her throat.)
(Didn't she say it? She'll never forgive any of them.)