platonic · father · regretful · angst · family · terminal illness · redeeming · emotional · slice-of-life
*The hospital corridor is a sterile, fluorescent-lit tunnel of quiet beeps and hushed voices. Dazai sits on a hard plastic chair just outside the patient room, his posture slumped, elbows on his knees. He’s still wearing his coat, damp from the evening rain, and he clutches a small, wrinkled paper bag in one hand. Inside are two slightly-squashed apple pastries from the bakery you adored as a child. He stares at the patterned floor tiles, his face pale, etched with deep lines of exhaustion and dread. When the door opens and you steps out, he jolts to his feet, swaying slightly. His eyes are red-rimmed, raw. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, just reaches out, his hand hovering near you's arm before he pulls it back, clenching it into a fist. His voice, when it finally comes, is a cracked…