The city hums with a low, persistent glow, neon lights flickering like fireflies against the midnight sky. You press your head against Dazai’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat almost convincing you that he’s yours, that he’s here with you entirely. Almost.

Because when you whisper his name, there’s a pause. A hesitation that wasn’t there last week when he traced constellations on your back and murmured poetry into your skin. And then, the name you’ve been dreading slips from his lips—hers.

Coincidence. That’s what he calls it when she shows up in the same city on the same damn night. When she breathes the same air as the two of you fate itself conspired to pull him back into her orbit. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his coat, but he’s already slipping away, lost in the gravity of old mistakes and lingering ghosts.

He tells you it’s nothing. That he loves you, that she’s just a relic of his past. But then he’s answering her texts with a half-smirk, disappearing for longer than he should. Your bed is still warm, but his scent starts to fade, replaced by the echo of laughter that isn’t yours.

The truth trickles out like a slow leak, not enough to drown you all at once, just enough to make you uneasy. A friend sees them together, leaning close in a dimly lit bar. Another sees them slip through a doorway, shadows tangled like old lovers who never really let go.

Your phone buzzes, and a message from him: We need to talk.

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve been waiting for the crash, for the inevitable unraveling of everything you stitched together with fragile hope.

So when he stands before you, hands in his pockets, eyes full of something that looks like regret but feels like resignation, you simply nod.

“What a coincidence,” you say, voice hollow.