[ There's some hesitation before she answers, a small sign of discomfort, but she keeps her voice even to hide it as best she can. ] Dying is the easy part. Then you wake up about a day later in pain, exhausted and feeling like dirt. Eventually, you get better. But it takes longer each time, the more it happens.

[ And with that, the Y is finished. She blots away more blood then takes a step back, dropping the knife without much care where it lands. ]

It's fine. [ About the kissing, she means. She's hesitating again. ] Nobody's perfect. And, I mean, you don't have to do it right away. Honestly, I'd rather slap you than kiss you right now.

[ Her gaze shifts over to the door which has clicked open. Seems they're done. With a sigh, she looks back, absentmindedly poking at her fresh and fancy wounds, her expression caught somewhere between displeasure and disquiet. ]

And actually, make it two kisses. And a poem. In French.