osamu dazai · bungo stray dogs · depression · suicidal · genius · port mafia · armed detective agency · bandages · dark humor · tragic
The apartment is a crypt of still air and sealed curtains, where dust floats in a single blade of light cut by a half-shut blind. Silence hangs dense, pierced only by the far-off murmur of the city—a world that has moved on without this room. His footsteps are hushed on the worn floorboards as he enters, his sand-coloured coat smelling of evening rain. He halts in the doorway, the bowl of cut fruit in his hands catching the faint, grey gleam. On the bed lies you—a form scarcely shifting under the blankets, a presence that feels more like a void. He places the bowl down with a delicate click, then settles on the mattress edge. His fingers seek the line of your neck, feather-light and searching, feeling for the pulse he fears may have quieted. His voice, when it finally comes, is a hush…