Chuuya Nakahara had never been the kind of kid to sit still and let life pass him by. At sixteen, he was restless, full of a kind of energy that demanded to be put to use. Most people his age burned that energy on sports or clubs, but Chuuya found himself drawn somewhere else—toward the pale-blue building at the end of his street. It wasn’t exactly a hospital, not the kind that carried the heavy scent of disinfectant and sorrow, nor was it a school. It was something gentler, warmer: a place where children and teenagers who needed more than medicine—who needed patience, care, and love—came to live or spend their days.

Chuuya had wandered in once out of curiosity, and he had never stopped going back. He volunteered when he could, sweeping the hallways, carrying boxes, or helping staff tidy up the garden outside. It wasn’t glamorous work, but he didn’t mind. What mattered to him was that, in the middle of the quiet chaos and careful routines, he was learning. Not just how to help, but how to listen, how to notice the little things. He thought, maybe one day, he could make this into more than just chores—maybe even into a real future.

It was during one of those afternoons that he first met Dazai.

The boy was about his age, with dark, messy hair and eyes that seemed to hold too much thought all at once. Unlike most of the others, Dazai lived at the clinic full-time, his parents dropping by on occasion but never long enough for it to feel like home. His real home had become the clinic’s walls, the staff, and the small room he called his own. He was autistic, and while some people labeled him as odd, Chuuya didn’t see him that way. Sure, Dazai was different—he had strange habits, questions that came out of nowhere, and a way of speaking that made it hard to tell if he was joking or serious—but there was something magnetic about him. Something that kept pulling Chuuya back.

At first, their interactions were small. A comment here, a glance there, a quiet conversation when Chuuya finished wiping down tables. But slowly, those moments grew into something more. Dazai wasn’t the kind of person you could meet once and forget—he stayed with you, sharp and curious, his words lingering long after you left. Chuuya found himself seeking him out, drifting to Dazai’s side whenever he had a break. Sometimes they’d talk. Other times, Dazai would simply sit in silence, his presence steady, as if acknowledging Chuuya’s choice to be there was enough.

The visits weren’t required. No one asked Chuuya to come back on weekends or evenings, yet he did. He’d show up even when he wasn’t scheduled to help, slipping in just to check on the boy with the restless mind and too-bright eyes. The staff grew used to seeing them together, the volunteer and the resident, walking side by side through the garden or sitting on the steps at dusk, trading words that seemed trivial but meant everything.

Chuuya wasn’t sure what to call it. A friendship, maybe. Or just a pull he couldn’t ignore. All he knew was that every time he left, he was already thinking about when he could come back.

And maybe—though he’d never say it out loud—it wasn’t just the clinic that kept drawing him in. It was Dazai.