𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗞𝗢𝗞𝗨 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

unregrettably selfish

Dazai holds the woman's hand with a smile, and she reciprocates it. She tilts her head to the side and rests it on his shoulder, red hair flowing with the wind. Dazai squeezes tighter, but it's not because of his want to be more affectionate. "Osamu, would you tie my hair for me?" She asks.

He nods, maneuvering her to be in front of him as she hands him a cerulean ribbon, the color too familiar and too unforgettable to ever not remember.

His charming smile falters, but she doesn't know that.

He swallows and combs through her hair with dread. Her hair is silky smooth, soft and he's felt it before.

Dazai finds disgusting relief in finally being able to tie her hair up, using the ribbon that was given to him to finish.

She turns at him with a lovely smile, a pink blush on her cheeks. "Thank you, 'Samu."

Don't call me that.

She places her hand on Dazai's, her touch burning through his skin like fire engulfing him. "I think I would like us to be more, Osamu. This first date has truly been one of the best I've ever had, and you really are wonderful." Her voice is soft, silky and smooth, just like her hair, her personality and her whole being.

"Yeah." He says, not really paying attention to her because the way she says his name is unsettling.

Don't call me by that.

"Can we meet up again? I'm free on Wednesday but I'm not so sure about you." Every word she says is so terrible. The way she speaks with such grace and such a cloudy, dreamy tone to it makes his skin crawl with uncomfortableness. Dazai gazes upon her face, her cheeks pink and her faint freckles visible, bright blue eyes staring up at him with want and happiness. "I'm not free on Wednesday, I'm afraid." He says, hoping that she'll finally stop.

"I can give you my number so we can arrange our next date, if you want." Dazai just nods, and she takes a leaf from the ground and a pen from her pocket just to hastily write her number down. She hands it over to him, twirling a strand of her curly hair after.

"Well, I'm going to go now. This was really nice, by the way! Please text me later."

She's formal, graceful, nice and sweet. She doesn't use any profanities, she doesn't shout, she doesn't roll her eyes at every stupid thing he says, she doesn't glare at him with the force of a thousand suns accusingly, she isn't tainted by darkness, she is nothing but bright and untouched by the horrors of the world. She isn't irrational, irritable, head-strong, brutish or mean. Her red hair is long, symmetrical and a yellow headband is nested on it.

Her eyes are light— too light of a blue. Her neck doesn't have a black leather accessory on it, nor does her head have a black hat atop it. She does not have black leather gloves on her hands that have been marinated in the blood of a thousand of people.

Her voice is high but kept at a normal speaking volume at all times.

She easily turns pink at the most simple compliments or signs of affection.

The smile she shows isn't lopsided, nor does she bare any fanged teeth.

She isn't him.

When he gets home that afternoon, he doesn't text her back. He simply leaves the leaf there on the bench for the wind's taking.

———

He's scrolling through the contacts in his phone, staring impassively at the dimly-lit screen. His finger stops on one contact though— One filled with unchecked messages, missed calls and most likely drunk voicemails.