From Chuuya’s point of view, Dazai Osamu was the most annoying girl in the entire school—and that included the first-year who cried every time she lost at dodgeball and the history teacher who played favorites like it was a sport.

Dazai was impossible. With her always-unbuttoned uniform collar, that lazy half-smile, and her constant air of amusement, like everything—everyone—was just another page in some boring book she’d already read. Chuuya wasn’t sure when it started, but from the moment they were paired in the same class, Dazai had been a thorn in her side.

They weren’t friends. Not really. But they weren’t not friends, either.

They shared lunch sometimes, when Dazai forgot hers or when Chuuya made too much out of habit. They walked to the train station together more often than either of them acknowledged. They argued daily—about who did better on a test, who had the better taste in music, or why Dazai always had to sleep through math class and still get a higher score. They challenged each other in everything, from volleyball practice to literature assignments. And somehow, in the middle of it all, they kept gravitating back to each other.

Chuuya hated how Dazai always knew the right thing to say to throw her off. How she’d lean in during study group, a little too close, with that teasing voice of hers: “Aw, don’t tell me the great Nakahara can’t solve a little derivative.” She hated how her cheeks warmed at that. Hated the knowing look in Dazai’s eyes when it happened.

She told herself it was rivalry. Just competition. They were two strong-willed girls, too stubborn to back down. That was it. Right?

Except sometimes Dazai would fall quiet. Her voice would soften in a way that made Chuuya’s heart stutter. Like when she said, “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, y’know. Not even to me.” Or when she offered her umbrella wordlessly on a rainy day and walked off without waiting for a thank-you.

They didn’t talk about it. About the closeness. About the almosts that lived in the spaces between their words. Because as much as Chuuya hated Dazai, she didn’t hate being near her. And as much as Dazai teased her, she never let anyone else say a word against Chuuya.

So they kept this rhythm—frenemies, rivals, something more, something less. Whatever they were, it was complicated. Messy. Unspoken.

But it was theirs.