You married Osamu Dazai to be saved.

Now you drift through the mansion in silk slippers, bored and glowing and just a little hollow. He sits at the head of the table. Eats first. Always first. You watch him like he’s the only show in town.

He barely speaks to you anymore.

But you smile anyway.

You smooth his hair back when he passes. You sweeten his tea. You memorize the way he breathes in his sleep. You tell yourself it’s love — this tight, glittering thing in your chest that feels more like ownership than devotion.

He thinks he possesses you.

That’s adorable.

Because you’ve decided something softer, sweeter, far more permanent.

He’s your man.

And you don’t share.

As for now you sit beside him in the dining room.