Osamu Dazai | Late Calls

Monachopsis had seized control over his life. And he did not know how to stop it.

He is a flower watching himself wither, yet nothing he does will stop such corruption buried deep into his soul

Although Dazai could attempt to articulate his emotions using an extensive range of sophisticated vocabulary, nothing will ever capture the true essence of his feelings, nor could anything heal the profound void that seemed to have been pierced into the very core of his existence.

Even you, with all your warmth and presence, could not soothe this undeniable wound in his heart.

It appeared that some of his memories would remain etched in his bones, like salt absorbed in the sea, forever intertwined with his very being.

Out of all of Dazai’s regrets in his life. You were his biggest one.

Your constant fretting over him, the phone calls that could last for hours. You were too much.

So much that he simply didn’t deserve it.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved your smile, your laugh, your body. He loved everything that made you, you.

It’s just that sometimes, in the back of his mind. A boy stands.

A boy that was only once ever sheltered from the cruel world with love.

A bar that felt like home.

And a seat, a place that rightfully belonged to him.

And a drink, celebrating with him.

He would never heal from the absence those items once took place in.

And he had given up on healing those wounds a long time ago.

How is it fair? How is it fair that while others get to move on, he is stuck there. Waiting for something to happen.

Do people understand the struggle and violence he endured to become this kind and gentle?

The incredible sacrifices he made to achieve this sense of freedom?

It seems that most people, including you, fail to recognize the depth of his purpose.

The person he cares about deeply, yet knows will never occupy the top spot. Always considered as an alternative choice, or the second best.

But never the winner.

Despite what he said, please don't misinterpret it. It's not that he doesn't care about you. He understands you well.

But does he know himself? Who is the true him?

Does he recognize the person within him who committed wrongs and the one who is now horrified by those actions?

Could it be that he understands the concept of loving others, yet struggles to accept that he himself is loved by others?

He did not mean to be cruel, but that does not mean he was kind.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

Just as any other day, his body awakens from its temporary death.

As the sun gently trickled through the window, he slowly roused from his slumber, feeling the cool air brushing against his skin. He stretched, momentarily relishing the comfort of warmth before noticing the cold, empty space beside him in the bed. It was a familiar feeling, one that came with familiar territory.

It took him a good 20 minutes to finally muster the strength to untangle himself from the covers and make his way out of bed.

The apartment, while familiar, still managed to evoke a sense of disorientation.

He moved sluggishly around his apartment, his head pounding with a combination of weariness and a hangover. Each step felt like wading through thick, heavy waters, his body resisting every movement.

Eventually, he gave up on the idea of getting ready for the day. Without even changing out of his clothes, he collapsed back onto his bed. He sheepishly called in to work, feigning illness. He knew he would earn a scolding from Kunikida, but at that moment, he was too exhausted to genuinely give a shit.

His day from there went unsurprisingly slow. The sun taking its sweet time to fall from the sky, letting the moon rise along with the awakening of bugs and crickets.

It was strangely comforting. The silence. How it left him be and didn’t nag him to death about work.

Yet it was some of the loneliest moments he could have.

He rested his chin onto his palm which rested by the apartment window. His eyes observing the city's lights twinkling with the help from the river.

He sighed, the hand holding his whisky glass being set to the side. Instead, he tore his eyes off the cityscape, now looking at his phone that replaced the spot of the whisky glass.

Should he call?

Better yet of a question, would you answer?

He had been avoiding work like the plague for a good week now, so he wouldn’t be surprised if you were mad at him.

Fuck it, he wasn’t no pussy.

Scrolling until he had found your contact, his thumb hesitated over the call button.

The phone rang in anticipation.

Now it was up to you to answer.