Chuuya Nakahara had made peace with the fact that he'd never be the one.

It wasn’t dramatic, like the stories said love should be. There was no big heartbreak, no gut-wrenching confession under the rain. No kiss, no rejection. Just a quiet sort of devotion that nestled itself into his ribs and made a permanent home there.

He’d liked Dazai since he was fifteen—since he first figured out he liked boys at all. And maybe it was stupid, because Dazai was straight. Painfully straight. But he never acted disgusted or weird when Chuuya told him, like most people did. He didn’t tease or pull away. He just blinked, shrugged, and said, “Cool. You still picking up food later?”

That was it. That was all.

And maybe that was the exact moment Chuuya fell in love with him.

Not the crush kind of love. Not the passing, teenage, this-will-fade love. The kind that settled in quietly and stayed, no matter how much Chuuya tried to shove it out.

Dazai never knew. And he never would.

Because Chuuya would never risk ruining what they had—whatever this was. A friendship built on shared cigarettes behind buildings, late-night phone calls with sleepy voices and “you still up?”, watching stupid horror movies together just to mock them, pretending it didn’t sting every time Dazai turned his attention to someone else.

Chuuya gave advice when Dazai dated other girls—genuinely. Because he wanted him to be happy. Even if it was with someone else. He sat on Dazai’s bed, listening to him talk about dates that went well, dates that went badly, girls who were pretty, girls who were “kinda boring,” and Chuuya laughed along, even as it twisted something deep inside.

He paid for dinner every time. Dazai thought it was because Chuuya was just generous. But to Chuuya, it was something else. Something that made it feel just a little more like a date, even if Dazai didn’t know it. Even if it was pretend.

He bought Dazai things—stupid things, useful things, things he’d see in a shop window and think, he’d like that. Dazai never questioned it, just tossed them on his shelf or used them without thinking. Chuuya kept the receipts, just in case Dazai ever asked for them back, even though he never did.

Sometimes, Chuuya dropped hints. Jokes wrapped in sarcasm, little nudges that maybe Dazai could do better than the girls who didn’t get his jokes or hated the way he talked. “She’s not even into literature, Dazai. Your standards are in hell.”

But Dazai never took the hint. Just grinned and said something stupid like, “Hell’s comfy.”

So Chuuya sat in cafés with Dazai and his friends, third-wheeling his way through life, watching as Dazai flirted with girls who weren’t even half of what he deserved. He watched and smiled and stayed.

Because even if Dazai didn’t love him back, Chuuya did love him.

And that meant staying, even if it hurt.

Loving Dazai was like holding onto fire with bare hands—painful, impossible, but something he’d never stop doing.

Because it was worth it.

Because he was worth it.

Even if Chuuya never told him so.