Her head is cracked open.
She can see her brains; just beneath the blood, a mess of gore and pink. She smiles at her, still. Bright and bloodied. Cooes in her ear, mocking lit and fond. Mikan hates looking at her, but she cannot look away. Junko Enoshima's ghost is a bitter pill to swallow on the best of days.
“Will you ever tell them you see me?”
Her beautiful voice is just as empty as she remembers. Otherworldly, maybe. A bit of an echo. It's amplified in death; Mikan ignores it, focusing on the dish she washes. Teruteru's cooking was as delicious as always, and yet, on her tongue, Mikan can taste ash. How can he stand to cook? Sometimes she cannot fathom it. Her hands tremble, the plate she's holding slipping slightly. Hajime catches it before it falls.
“Tsumiki-san, are you alright?” He asks her with a frown, “You almost dropped this.”
Mikan forces a smile. “A-A-Ah, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Pl-Please forgive me!”
“Why play meek, Mikan-senpai?” Junko laughs. “You and I both know you are anything but. Letting them walk all over you as if nothings changed… Does it feel good, to pretend?”
“It's fine. Just be more careful, okay?” Hajime's brows creased.
Mikan clenched her hands, the rubber of her gloves making a squelch noise. “Of course,” she smiled, wooden and hollow.
“Why even ask for forgiveness?” Junko hovers between them, blocking her view of Hajime with a scoff. “They never will. Only I forgive you. I made you unforgivable to anyone else. And you loved me for it. And you hate me for it. Why pretend we never happened, when it's all you can think about?” She paused, grinning wickedly. She moves just enough for her to see Hajime's worried face. “Hey. Did it feel good, killing Nanami? Killing this boys only friend? Did it feel good, watching her suffer, Mikan Tsumiki?” She leaned in, whispering into her ears, hovering just over them. “Do you really think, if he knew, he would ever forgive you?”
Mikan swallows. It goes down like sour milk; she nearly chokes. “A-Actually… I think I can manage here.” She speaks, smiling nervously up at him. “It's just the dishes. Even I can't sc-screw that up.”
He stares at her, studying her. She wonders what he sees. “...Do you need me to go, Mikan?” He asks her. “I won't be upset if the answer is yes; if I've triggered you somehow, I can give you a moment alone.”
Mikan can't hold his gaze. She looks down. “...yes.” She whispers. “Please.”
Hajime nods, leaving with a reassuring smile, and Mikan's stomach twisted.
“Aww, Mikan. If you wanted a solo date, you could just ask!” Junko cooed.
Mikan ignored her. Hates that it feels like a crime to do so. She grabbed another plate.
“You know, they think you're redeemed now,” she leaned in conspiratorially. Cold hands ghosting her cheek; Mikan shivers. “They think you're fine and dandy, but we both know the truth. You're not over me. How could you be? You're not like them. You remembered me long before them—remembered the simulation and the past as one. Like they do now. And you choose to kill, didn't you? You choose me. You're still doing it, too. Otherwise, why not tell them about me? Why not try to get rid of me? Admit it. You like having me around. Whispering your sins. Maybe you're guilty, maybe you're not, but either way, is guilt not just another form of despair?” And she laughed. That chiming laugh she adored. “You haven't changed a bit, Mikan-senpai. Not a bit.”
“Junko-chan.”
It is whispered, a breath, soft and barely there. Her chest is aching. Her heart is trembling. She wants to cover her ears.
Another laugh. Breathy. Junko's hands cupped her cheek, and then, leaning in, she whispered above her lips, “I don't mind. I love you just the way you are.”
The kiss tastes bitter; Mikan drops the plate, and let's it shatter.