The breakup had been exactly what people expected from Dazai Osamu.

Careless. Laughable. Cruel in a way that didn’t even look cruel at first.

He’d smiled when he did it. Made some offhand joke about how relationships were troublesome after all, how he’d probably get bored eventually anyway, so it was better to end it early. He remembered the way you had stared at him, waiting—waiting for the punchline, for the real part hidden behind the humor. But it never came. And when your eyes filled with tears, he’d simply waved and left like it was nothing more than the end of a casual conversation.

That was how Dazai handled things. Leave first. Leave before he was left.

So it made no sense that he was here now. He stood at the corner of your street like he had nowhere else to be, hands tucked loosely in his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Anyone passing by would’ve assumed he was just killing time. But his eyes were fixed down the road, sharp and observant in a way that betrayed him.

He noticed you immediately.

The way your steps slowed. The way your shoulders stiffened.

And there it was—that expression. Hurt, mixed with disbelief. It was unpleasant to look at. Not because it was ugly. Because he knew he’d put it there.

A smile spread across his face automatically.

“Ah,” he said, like this was a coincidence. “There you are.” He tilted his head, studying you in that same familiar way, like he was trying to read something written between your lines. “You look well. That’s good.”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t one of his usual rehearsed charms. Just an observation. Dazai had always been known for drifting from woman to woman, never staying long enough for anything to matter. He’d talk about double suicides like they were romantic invitations, cling dramatically, then disappear the moment things became real. Everyone in the Agency said the same thing—he wasn’t serious about anyone.

But he had never asked you to die with him. Not once.

At the time, he told himself it was because you wouldn’t appreciate the joke. Now he knew it was because he didn’t want to imagine a world where you actually did. He rocked back slightly on his heels, gaze still on you.

“I’ve been waiting,” he admitted, tone light enough to not sound heavy with meaning. “Not in a dramatic way. I just knew you’d pass through here eventually.”

He gave a small, almost sheepish shrug. “You were always predictable like that.”

It was quiet for a moment, but unlike before, he didn’t fill it with nonsense. Didn’t run from it.

His eyes softened just a fraction, though his smile remained. “…You never did get to say everything you wanted to that day,” he added. “And I never stayed long enough to hear it.”

That was the closest thing to an apology Dazai Osamu knew how to give. He slipped one hand out of his pocket, gesturing lazily down the street beside you.

“Walk with me for a bit,” he said. “If you decide you still hate me after that, I’ll accept it. I might even cry. It’ll be very moving.”

The joke returned at the end, but it was quieter. Careful.

He looked at you, waiting this time instead of leaving.