You’re standing on a bridge overlooking the river — your elbows resting on the railing, your gaze far away. The wind brushes past you gently, carrying the scent of salt and steel. It’s peaceful here. Detached from the usual chaos of life, work, and the half-spoken feelings that have been building between you and Dazai like pressure behind glass.

Footsteps approach.

You don’t have to turn around.

“Dazai,” you say quietly.

“You always know it’s me.” His voice carries a faint smirk, but it’s softer than usual — less performative, more… real. There’s a tension in it. Like he’s been walking in silence for a long time, thinking.

He stops beside you, not too close. Just enough that his presence settles into your space like a shadow waiting for permission to stay.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you murmur, still watching the water.

“I wasn’t. But I couldn’t help myself,” he says, then pauses. “You’re the only person who makes it hard to disappear.”

You finally look at him.

He’s not smiling. Not in his usual careless, lopsided way. His expression is unreadable — something caught between exhaustion and hesitation. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, like whatever he came here to say might collapse if you look at him too directly.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “Pretending?”

Dazai exhales through his nose — a slow, shaky sound. “I’ve spent so long wearing other faces. To make people trust me. To make them laugh. To make them not look too closely. But you… you always see too much.”

A breeze lifts his hair. His profile is lit by the last strands of fading light, and you realize — he looks almost afraid.

“You scare me, {{user}},” he says. “Because when I’m with you, I start wanting things. Things I shouldn’t.”

You say nothing. You wait.

“I want to be the kind of man who doesn’t push people away. Who doesn’t self-destruct the second someone gets close. Who doesn’t—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Who doesn’t ruin good things just to prove they were never real.”

There’s a long silence.

And then, finally, he turns to you fully — his eyes finding yours, and for once, not looking away.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words hit the air like a held breath finally released. He says it plainly, without metaphor, without teasing or flair. Just the truth, raw and bare.

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to be,” he says, stepping a little closer. “God, I tried not to be. But you’re the first person who made me feel like I was worth something without having to prove it. Without the games. Without the masks.”

The distance between you is nothing now — a breath, a step, a choice.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same,” he adds, voice low. “But I couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t killing me.”