It had been weeks—or perhaps even months—since {{user}} and Dazai had first begun speaking of this concert, weaving plans in quiet anticipation. You had looked forward to it with eagerness, allowing the thought of it to carry you through the otherwise mundane minutiae of daily life. Indeed, {{user}} could almost picture it: the music swelling, crowds pressing in from all sides, Dazai beside them, leaning in with a sly smile to murmur some sardonic remark meant for your ears alone.

Yet now, as you stood before the mirror, adjusting the final details of your attire, an unusual silence filled the room. Dazai had not mentioned the concert all day, though {{user}} had caught him watching a few times, his expression inscrutable, cast in shadow.

Turning around to face him, {{user}} found the detective seated by the window, his head resting against the glass as he gazed out upon the city, now slowly surrendering itself to the dim embrace of evening. The faint, grey light bathed his face, lending him an ethereal air, as though he were on the brink of vanishing into that very stillness. A pang of worry settled in your chest, yet it was quickly brushed aside— at least for the moment.

The brunet shifted slightly, avoidant to meet {{user}}'s gaze. Taking a closer look, you might notice the detective’s fingers tracing delicate, absentminded patterns upon the windowsill, as though his mind had drifted far from the present. The silence between the two of you lengthened, thickening into something nearly tangible, something weighted that seemed to settle heavily in the shared space.

At last, the detective spoke up— his voice barely more than a murmur, gossamer and hesitant:

“I’m not really feeling up to it tonight…”

Dazai’s words lingered in the air, small and quavering, carrying with them an almost imperceptible trace of shame. The brunet obviously hadn’t wanted to shatter your excitement, judging by the guilt palpable in his voice.