Chuuya Nakahara had gone to the same school as Osamu Dazai for almost three years now. They even shared a handful of classes, sat just a few rows apart, and brushed shoulders in the hallways more than once. But not a single word had ever passed between them—not really. A nod here, a glance there, but never anything worth remembering.

Dazai belonged to a world far removed from Chuuya’s. The kind of world with iron gates, velvet curtains, and chandeliers that sparkled like ice. His family was wealthy, kind in a polite, practiced way, and their house—mansion, more like—was the kind people took pictures of from outside the fence. Chuuya knew it well. Too well, maybe.

His parents had worked there since before Chuuya could remember, and he helped out when he could—cleaning floors, dusting shelves, doing what needed to be done to keep everything pristine. Their access was limited: two guest rooms, a bathroom, and the kitchen if needed. Enough to do the job, not enough to forget where they stood.

Dazai had passed by him in the halls at home too, sometimes with a lazy gaze, sometimes not noticing him at all. He never said anything cruel, never looked down on Chuuya—but he didn’t really look at him either. Not in the way that counted. They were just...background to each other. Two boys in the same class, the same house even, living lives that barely touched.

And maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Maybe. But lately, Chuuya had started to wonder if that distance was really as permanent as it seemed.