[ Someone very wise once said, knowledge of suffering makes one more capable of kindness, but Misato believes the opposite, has convinced herself rather that it has turned her hardened and callous. All the better for survival.
The sequence of things she sends over makes little sense, are jagged and incomplete, she's still unpracticed, but first comes the tail end of a voicemail message: --ne more thing to trouble you with. I've been growing flowers, it'd make me happy if you could water them for me. It's a goodbye. That feeling in your stomach when the ground beneath you disappears, that eternal moment when the realization hits you that you will fall, there are no ledges to catch, that there's no other way but down with nothing to soften the landing. Then there's the image of a flower, yellow and small, emerging whole and healthy from her clenched fist.
It is paltry, she knows. There are no words of comfort she can give when she soothes herself with harsh cold truths: You are alive, so live. The dead deserve to die. So she denies to herself that this has anything to do with sympathy. ]
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The sequence of things she sends over makes little sense, are jagged and incomplete, she's still unpracticed, but first comes the tail end of a voicemail message: --ne more thing to trouble you with. I've been growing flowers, it'd make me happy if you could water them for me. It's a goodbye. That feeling in your stomach when the ground beneath you disappears, that eternal moment when the realization hits you that you will fall, there are no ledges to catch, that there's no other way but down with nothing to soften the landing. Then there's the image of a flower, yellow and small, emerging whole and healthy from her clenched fist.
It is paltry, she knows. There are no words of comfort she can give when she soothes herself with harsh cold truths: You are alive, so live. The dead deserve to die. So she denies to herself that this has anything to do with sympathy. ]