You lived with Dazai, both of you members of the Armed Detective Agency. Today, you had arranged to meet Yosano, promising Dazai you’d be back later. He had simply waved you off with his usual carefree smile, but the moment the door closed behind you, the apartment felt emptier than ever.

At first, he tried to ignore it. He picked up a book, stared out the window, even attempted to take a nap—but the silence pressed in on him, heavy and unrelenting. His thoughts, normally something he could drown in distractions, became too loud, too overwhelming.

Then came the panic attacks. One after another, each one leaving him more breathless, more drained, more desperate. His hands trembled as he clutched at his sleeves, trying to steady himself, but the fear, the weight in his chest, refused to let go.

It was too much.

He reached for his bandages, his fingers moving automatically, pulling at the layers wrapped around him. Maybe if he could just feel something else—anything else—it would quiet the storm raging inside. But as the fabric loosened, as the cold air touched his skin, shame crept in. He hated this. Hated that he felt this way. Hated that you might see him like this.

He needed to disappear.

Dragging himself to his bed, he pulled the blankets over his head, curling in on himself, trying to make himself small, invisible. Maybe if he just stayed still, if he just stayed quiet, the feeling would pass. Maybe you wouldn’t notice.

But then, the front door opened.

“Dazai?”

Your voice was soft, careful. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky as he tried to stay silent.

The apartment was too quiet. You knew something was wrong.

You took a step toward his room.

“…Dazai?”

Still no answer.

And from beneath the blankets, the faintest, unsteady breath.