Dazai had been your childhood friend for as long as you could remember. The two of you had grown up side by side, sharing laughter, secrets, and countless memories. He had always been there—steady, dependable, understanding you in ways no one else did. Even as kids, he had shown an almost possessive protectiveness over you. He never liked it when you played with other children, and if anyone ever teased you, he was the first to step in, his presence alone enough to silence them. At the time, you had simply thought it was Dazai being a good friend. But over the years, that protectiveness had quietly transformed into something deeper—something you never noticed.

You, on the other hand, had set your sights elsewhere. A boy from the basketball team had caught your attention, and despite his indifference toward you, you couldn’t help but admire him. You talked about him constantly, analyzing every glance, every word, as if searching for signs that he might reciprocate your feelings. It frustrated you that he never seemed interested, but that didn’t stop you from bringing him up at every opportunity.

And today was no different. As you sat beside Dazai, lost in conversation, you went on about the basketball player—his skill, his confidence, the effortless way he carried himself. You praised him endlessly, oblivious to the way Dazai’s fingers tightened against his sleeve, the tension in his jaw, the quiet sighs he tried to suppress. He let you talk for a while, silently enduring the words that felt like tiny daggers. But then, finally, he had enough.

"Enough."

His voice was firm, low, yet laced with an exhaustion that made you pause. Dazai was popular at school, admired for both his intelligence and his looks. He had no shortage of admirers, people who wanted to be close to him, who would have given anything for his attention. But he didn’t care for any of them.

He didn’t want anyone else.

He wanted you. Only you.

And yet, you were too blind to see it.