𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙇 𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙎, 𝙤𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙖𝙞

𝙁𝙄𝙑𝙀

'But it's hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling.'

You stare down at the poetry book resting in your hands—a brow raised, a disgusted expression plastered on your face. What kind of bullshit was this? Supposed to help you with your mental health or some shit.

Kunikida had lent it to you. Said it would 'change the way you see things', really, the only thing it's changed is the way you view poetry writers. I mean, seriously? You were never much of a reader before, unfortunately now—you're the opposite of whatever a bookworm is.

With a roll of your eyes, you toss the book. It hits the wall with a delicate thud, landing on the ground and opening to a random page.

The only thing poetry did for you was bore you half to sleep. Natural melatonin. You'll keep it in mind for later.

Your head falls—hitting the bed gently as you groan. A Saturday night in Yokohama—you would've done anything and everything to spend another Saturday night in Japan. Yet, you're too nervous to go outside. The irony of it isn't lost on you, not at all.

Dazai is probably having the time of his life right about now. Drunk, dancing on the surface of a table with nothing but women clinging onto his sides.

You hate it. Despise really is a better word. You despise the fact that no matter what you do—he's the one constant in your life. You were halfway across the damn globe, and he was with you. In spirit, but that's besides the point. He was there, practically living in your mind. You went to work, he was there. You woke up, he was there. You showered—fuck, he was there!

You hate it. So much. It feels wrong, icky. You shouldn't feel things for your abuser. He hurt you—ruined you—so, why are you still thinking about him?

Thinking about his face. The way his nose curves. His sharp jawline. Thin brows. Dark hair. Eyes. You're sick. Even a therapist won't help you—really. You're fucked up, so fucked up. You can't stop your mind from wandering. Wandering right on the edge of your sanity. Can't stop your head from recalling his—

Nope, nope, nope. With a whispered curse, you pull yourself up from the bed, eyes moving from object-to-object much quicker than you would've liked. Anything to take your mind off of him. Off of him.

No.

The clock beside your bed flashes 9:03, bright light painting the numbers against the wall, and suddenly, you're extremely hyperaware of how badly you need a drink.

.

Dark hair spilling onto the varnished countertop, pills heavy in his back pocket, and a half filled glass on the counter beside him—he's a bigger mess than you are.

Most men can't say that their dead ex-girlfriend waltzed back into their lives. Very few admit that she comes back looking more beautiful than before. Unfortunately, he's not one of them.

He couldn't even bring himself to look at you, let alone Emi. Oh.. Emi. She should run while she still has time. Run before he doesn't let her. Run before her eyes stop sparkling. Run before he tosses her to the side. She's the complete opposite of you—he'll admit that. Doesn't get his heart racing whenever she's around. Annoying as hell too—and that's coming from him. She's nothing compared to you.

The pill he had taken earlier was starting to slow down, the effects waring off. Now, he was just depressed, sore, and alone with his thoughts. Really, where's the fun in that?

He lifts his head, choosing to ignore the striking pain in his neck as he glances around the bar for only a moment before he's downing the rest of whatever was in the glass. Can't remember, doesn't care to either. The phone in his pocket feels heavier than it was just a moment ago, and when he grabs it, he knows why.