Petrichor fills the atmosphere as the downpour dampens your clothes to an absurd degree. You had wished you had brought an umbrella, a coat more preferably. But due to the seemingly minuscule mistake of not checking the weather app on your phone, you are left with the drizzled forecast leeching on your skin. Where were you to go on a melancholic night like this? You just had stumbled into a bar on impulse, too desperate to even register the consequences of your actions. And now, with no car to drive you home and a phone long past available battery to take calls, you are forced to stagger across the soggy streets of Yokohama, reliant on whatever your inebriated brain tells you to seek.

Your heart races, and immediately you understand it was a subconscious bodily attempt to tell you to run back to Dazai's place. You had an inconvenient habit of inviting yourself over when you weren't sober enough to take care of yourself, and, unfortunately, Dazai welcomed that codependency with open arms. You assume it's most likely more out of pity than an actual genuine desire for things to be that way, so you've been trying to steer away from making that occur so often. Yet, again and again, in almost a blink of an eye, without consideration, you always end up back at his apartment door, the number engrained into your brain chemistry like a secret chant.

Regretfully, you still can't get out of doing it, as it is like the back of your hand, all you know. So once again, like a walk of shame, you knock on his door, knuckles shaking with contemplation. You know this is bad news for him; you know showing your face to him is the last thing he needs to end his week with; however, you're unforgivable and inhospitable, so you stay, like a wet stray dog in the rain, waiting.

He opens, and he stares, and stares, and stares, until eventually a smile tugs on the corners of his lips.

"I knew you'd come back." He comments, a chuckle leaving his throat, while all you can do is gaze at him in shame.