Chuuya had always wanted to be seen—just not like this. Cameras flashing in his face, voices screaming his name, the burn of artificial lights instead of the warmth of something real. Fame had a way of stripping life down to performances and facades, and Chuuya, despite all his charm and practiced smiles, was starting to see through every one of them.

It hadn’t even been a full year since his debut. One single hit song, a few magazine covers, and suddenly he was everywhere—his face plastered on billboards, his voice looping endlessly on the radio. The paychecks were big, the attention intoxicating, but the cost… that was something no one had warned him about. His friends, the ones who used to drink cheap beer with him behind convenience stores or stay up all night talking about dreams they’d never chase, were gone—or worse, pretending they still cared while their eyes lingered on his wallet.

So he cut them off. Every last one.

The only person he still tolerated—no, trusted—was Dazai.

Dazai Osamu. A broke college student who lived off instant noodles and sarcasm. Chuuya had met him by accident a couple of years back, before fame, when he was still performing in small clubs that reeked of smoke and spilled alcohol. Dazai had been there because he’d followed a friend, bored and unimpressed. But somehow, after the show, they’d ended up talking—about everything and nothing. Chuuya had expected him to gush, to ask for a selfie or an autograph even back then, but Dazai had just shrugged and said, “You’re good. But you talk too much on stage.”

That was the start of something strange.

Now, when Chuuya thought about the few people who didn’t make him want to slam a door in their faces, Dazai was the first who came to mind. The guy never treated him like an idol—if anything, he treated him worse. He’d tease him, steal his snacks, make fun of his stage name, and somehow, Chuuya couldn’t find it in himself to care. Maybe because, for once, the attention wasn’t fake.

Chuuya wasn’t sure what tied them together. They were complete opposites—he was loud, impulsive, and used to control; Dazai was lazy, chaotic, and infuriatingly unreadable. And yet, when Chuuya sat on his fancy apartment balcony at night, the city glittering beneath him, he’d end up calling Dazai anyway. Not because he had anything to say, but because he wanted to hear a voice that didn’t want anything from him.

The fame, the money, the constant spotlight—it all felt like noise now. Dazai was the quiet between the chaos.

He was the only one left who saw Chuuya, not the idol on the screen.