#neighbours

"Fuck this," you muttered, erasing the same problem for the fifth time. "Who the fuck needs to know about polynomials? When will I ever use this in real life?"

That's when you saw movement in the window directly across from yours.

The house next door had always been quiet. Eerily quiet. Like a house from a horror movie where the family turns out to be vampires or cultists or something equally disturbing. You'd seen Mr. and Mrs. Dazai maybe three times in your entire life, always in dark suits, always looking severe and cold like they were on their way to fire someone or foreclose on an orphanage. You'd never seen a kid.

But there he was.

A boy, maybe a year older than you, with messy dark brown hair that stuck up in every direction like he'd been electrocuted, and pale skin that seemed to glow in the lamplight. He was sitting at his desk, reading a book that looked way too thick and depressing to be homework. You could see the title from here: "No Longer Human" by Osamu Dazai.

What kind of teenager reads that shit?

He must have felt you staring because he looked up suddenly.

Your eyes met across the ten-foot gap between your houses.

You should have looked away. That would have been the normal thing to do. The socially acceptable thing.

Instead, like an idiot, you waved.

He blinked, clearly surprised. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—sharp and mischievous and a little bit feral, like a cat that had just spotted a particularly interesting bird.

He held up a finger in a "wait" gesture, then disappeared from view.

What the fuck?

A moment later, he was back, holding up a piece of paper with messy handwriting in thick black marker:

HI. I'M OSAMU. YOU'RE THE NEIGHBOR GIRL, RIGHT?

You grabbed your own notebook, scribbling quickly:

YEAH. I'M Y/N. I DIDN'T KNOW ANYONE LIVED THERE.

He wrote back fast, like he'd been waiting years for someone to talk to:

I'M HOMESCHOOLED. MY PARENTS KEEP ME LOCKED IN THE TOWER LIKE RAPUNZEL. BUT WITH MORE EXISTENTIAL DREAD AND LESS SINGING.

You snorted, quickly covering your mouth so you wouldn't wake your parents.

THAT SOUNDS DEPRESSING AS FUCK.

IT IS. WANT TO BE FRIENDS? I'M VERY LONELY AND POSSIBLY GOING INSANE. ALSO I CAN SEE YOU STRUGGLING WITH MATH FROM HERE.

You looked down at your homework, then back at him.

HOW DO YOU KNOW IT'S MATH?

YOU HAVE THE LOOK. THE "I HATE NUMBERS AND WANT TO DIE" LOOK. VERY RECOGNIZABLE.

OKAY FUCK YOU BUT ALSO YOU'RE RIGHT.

He laughed—you could see his shoulders shaking even though you couldn't hear it.

SO? FRIENDS?

SURE. YOU SEEM ONLY MODERATELY CRAZY.

PERFECT. I'LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.

And just like that, you had a friend.

A weird, homeschooled friend who apparently lived in the window across from yours and read depressing literature for fun.

The window conversations became a nightly thing.

Every night around 10 PM, like clockwork, Osamu would appear in his window, and you'd communicate through increasingly elaborate signs and gestures.

HOW WAS YOUR DAY? you wrote one night.

TERRIBLE. MY MOM TRIED TO TEACH ME CALCULUS AND I WANTED TO THROW MYSELF OUT THE WINDOW.

CALCULUS? AREN'T YOU LIKE FIFTEEN?

I AM. AND YES. SHE SAYS I'M "BEHIND." I SAY SHE'S INSANE.

BOTH CAN BE TRUE.

HARSH. BUT FAIR.

You grinned. WHAT ELSE DO YOU DO ALL DAY? BESIDES CONTEMPLATE DEFENESTRATION?

BIG WORD. I'M IMPRESSED.

SHUT UP.

I READ MOSTLY. DRAW SOMETIMES. STARE AT THE CEILING AND WONDER ABOUT THE MEANINGLESSNESS OF EXISTENCE. THE USUAL.

YOU'RE FUCKING WEIRD.

YOU'VE MENTIONED THAT. MULTIPLE TIMES.

IT BEARS REPEATING.

Sometimes it was homework help. Osamu was fucking brilliant at everything except math, which he claimed was "a tool of oppression designed to crush the human spirit and make us all miserable."

I NEED HELP WITH THIS ENGLISH ESSAY, you wrote one night.

WHAT'S IT ABOUT?

SYMBOLISM IN "THE GREAT GATSBY."

He actually perked up at that. You could see him sitting up straighter, getting excited.

OH FUCK YES. OKAY SO THE GREEN LIGHT IS OBVIOUSLY ABOUT UNATTAINABLE DREAMS AND THE CORRUPTION OF THE AMERICAN DREAM BUT IT'S ALSO ABOUT—

His next sign was absolutely covered in writing, way too much to read from this distance.

OSAMU I CAN'T READ THAT MUCH FROM HERE.

He paused, then held up a new sign:

COME TO YOUR WINDOW.

You opened it. He opened his.

"Okay," he called across the gap, his voice carrying in the quiet night. "So Gatsby is fundamentally about the impossibility of recapturing the past, right? The green light represents—"

"Are you seriously giving me a lecture at 11 PM?"

"You asked for help!"

"I thought you'd give me like, a sentence or two! Not a full fucking dissertation!"

"Do you want help or not?"

You sighed. "Fine. Keep going."

He did. For twenty minutes. Enthusiastically explaining symbolism and themes and character motivations with the kind of passion most people reserved for sports or video games.

And weirdly, it actually helped.

"You're really smart," you said when he finally finished.

He looked genuinely surprised. "What?"

"You're smart. Like, really smart. That was actually helpful."

"Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable with the compliment. "Thanks. I just... I like books. They make more sense than people."

"Same."

But your favorite thing was the shadow puppet shows.

Osamu had rigged up his desk lamp in a way that let him create elaborate shadows on his wall, and he'd perform entire stories—complete with different voices and sound effects you couldn't hear but could imagine from his exaggerated mouth movements.

One night, he did a whole show about a detective trying to solve the mystery of who ate the last cookie. It featured dramatic reveals, plot twists, and a final confession scene that had you laughing so hard you nearly fell out of your chair.

When he finished, you gave him a standing ovation.

He bowed deeply, grinning like an idiot.

YOU'RE REALLY GOOD AT THAT, you wrote.

THANKS. IT'S LITERALLY THE ONLY THING I'M GOOD AT. THAT AND DISAPPOINTING MY PARENTS.

I'M SURE THAT'S NOT TRUE.

NO, IT'S PRETTY ACCURATE. THEY WANTED A GENIUS PRODIGY WHO WOULD BECOME A DOCTOR OR LAWYER. THEY GOT ME INSTEAD. A DISAPPOINTMENT WHO READS TOO MUCH AND ASKS UNCOMFORTABLE QUESTIONS ABOUT MORTALITY.

THAT SUCKS.

IT'S FINE. I'VE ACCEPTED MY ROLE AS THE FAMILY EMBARRASSMENT. IT'S QUITE LIBERATING ACTUALLY.

WELL I THINK YOU'RE COOL.

He stared at your sign for a long moment, and even from across the gap, you could see his expression soften into something genuine and vulnerable.

THANKS. YOU'RE COOL TOO. FOR A PERSON WHO DOES MATH HOMEWORK AT 11 PM LIKE A PSYCHOPATH.

SHUT UP.

MAKE ME.

You flipped him off.

He blew you a kiss, making exaggerated smooching noises.

You threw a pillow at your window.

He fell out of his chair laughing.

It was 1 AM on a Saturday when everything changed.

You were wide awake, scrolling through your phone because sleep was apparently optional and your brain had decided that 1 AM was the perfect time to remember every embarrassing thing you'd ever done.

A soft tap tap tap on your window made you jump so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

You looked up to see Osamu outside your window. On the ledge. Two stories up. In pajamas.

"WHAT THE FUCK," you hissed, scrambling to open the window. Your hands were shaking. "Are you trying to fucking die? What the fuck are you doing?"

"Statistically, probably," he said cheerfully, climbing through your window with the ease of someone who'd done this before. "But not tonight. Tonight I'm trying to escape my house before I lose my mind completely."

He was wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon cats—which should have been ridiculous but somehow looked good on him—and a hoodie that was two sizes too big, the sleeves hanging past his hands. His hair was even messier than usual, sticking up in every direction like he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

"How did you even—the gap between our houses is like ten feet!"

"There's a tree." He pointed casually, like this was totally normal. "And a ledge. And a complete disregard for personal safety. The holy trinity of bad decisions."

"You're fucking insane."

"I prefer 'charmingly reckless.'" He looked around your room with genuine interest, actually examining things instead of just glancing. "Wow. This is very... teenage girl."

Your room was a disaster zone—books everywhere, clothes on the floor forming small mountain ranges, posters of bands you pretended to like, and approximately seventeen half-empty water bottles scattered around like sad little monuments to your terrible habits.

"Fuck off. You're the one who broke into my room."

"I didn't break in. You let me in. Legally speaking, this is a social call." He flopped onto your bed without asking, making himself comfortable like he'd been doing this for years instead of for the first time. He even put his hands behind his head. "Your bed is comfier than mine. Can I live here?"

"No."

"Worth a shot." He propped himself up on his elbows, looking at you with those dark, intense eyes that seemed to see right through you. "So. What do normal teenagers do at 1 AM? I have no frame of reference. My entire social life is window conversations and disappointing my parents."

"I don't know. Sleep? Watch Netflix? Regret our life choices?"

"The last one. Let's do that." He sat up suddenly, grinning in a way that meant trouble. "Want to go fuck with the neighbors?"

"What?"

"The neighbors. The Tanakas. They're always yelling at kids for being on their lawn. Like, aggressively. Old Man Tanaka chased some kid with a rake last week. I want to ring their doorbell and run away. Classic prank. Timeless comedy."

"That's so fucking stupid."

"Exactly. Are you in?"

You should have said no. Should have told him to go home, that you weren't going to participate in his chaotic bullshit, that this was a terrible idea that could only end badly.

But you were fourteen and bored and this weird boy had climbed through your window in the middle of the night like some kind of demented Peter Pan, and something about that felt like the start of an adventure.

"Fine. But if we get caught, I'm blaming you entirely."

"Deal. I accept full responsibility for this terrible decision."

You both snuck out of your house through the back door, moving quietly through the dark street like tiny criminals on a heist mission.

The night air was cool, almost cold, and you could hear crickets and the distant sound of a dog barking.

The Tanakas lived three houses down, and their porch light was on, casting everything in harsh yellow light that made the shadows look extra creepy.

"Okay," Osamu whispered, crouching behind a bush like a character in a spy movie. "You ring the doorbell, I'll hide here and document the chaos."

"Why do I have to ring it?"

"Because you're faster. And if we get caught, you're more likely to talk your way out of it. You have that 'good kid' look. I have 'delinquent' written all over me."

"You're wearing cat pajamas."

"Delinquent cat pajamas. Very threatening. I'm basically a gang member."

"You're a dumbass."

"That too."

You rolled your eyes but crept up to the door. Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might explode. This was so stupid. So incredibly, monumentally stupid.

Fuck it.

You rang the doorbell and ran.

Your legs pumped, adrenaline surging through you, and behind you, you heard the door open and Mr. Tanaka's confused, angry voice: "HELLO? WHO'S THERE? I HAVE A RAKE AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!"

You and Osamu were already two houses away, ducking behind a car, trying desperately not to laugh too loud and give away your position.

"Oh my god," you wheezed, your whole body shaking with suppressed laughter. "That was terrible. I feel like such an asshole."

"That was amazing," Osamu corrected, his eyes bright with mischief and adrenaline. "Did you hear him? 'I have a rake'! Who threatens people with gardening tools? That's amazing."

"We're going to hell."

"Worth it. Totally worth it."

You both sat there behind the car, catching your breath, and something about the moment felt significant. Like you'd crossed some invisible line from "neighbors who wave at each other through windows" to "actual friends who commit minor crimes together at 1 AM."

"Thanks for this," Osamu said quietly, his voice softer now. "I know it's stupid, but... I don't get out much. My parents are kind of... controlling. Obsessive. This is the most fun I've had in months. Maybe years."

Your heart squeezed. "You can come over whenever you want. Just... maybe use the door during normal hours? I don't want to scrape you off the pavement because you fell out of a tree."

"Deal. Though the tree route is more dramatic."

"You're obsessed with being dramatic."

"Drama is the spice of life."

"That's not the saying."

"It should be."

After that night, Osamu climbing through your window became a regular thing.

At least three times a week, usually between midnight and 2 AM, you'd hear that soft tap tap tap, and there he'd be—pajamas, messy hair, that sharp grin that meant he was about to suggest something stupid.

"Want to bake cookies?" he asked one night, appearing in your window like a cat burglar with particularly good hair.

"It's 1 AM."

"That's not a no."

"My parents are asleep."

"Then we'll be quiet." He was already climbing through, graceful as a cat. "Come on. When's the last time you had fresh cookies? Not that packaged shit. Real, homemade, potentially-going-to-set-off-the-smoke-alarm cookies."

"You know how to bake?"

"Absolutely not. But how hard can it be? You mix shit together and put it in the oven. That's like... three steps."

"That's not—"

"Come on. Live a little. Embrace chaos. What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could burn the house down."

"See, you're thinking too negatively. We could also make amazing cookies."

"The probability of that is extremely low."

"You sound like my mom. Don't be my mom. My mom is terrible."

Famous last words.

You both crept downstairs to the kitchen, moving like ninjas in a heist movie. Every creak of the stairs made you both freeze, listening for signs of parental awakening.

Osamu had pulled up a recipe on his phone, and you'd gathered ingredients as quietly as possible, trying not to bang the cabinet doors.

"Okay, it says we need butter," he whispered, reading the recipe with a look of deep concentration. "How much butter does a person need for cookies? This seems excessive."

"It says right there. One cup."

"That seems like a lot. That's basically just... a stick of butter. We're making cookies, not a heart attack."

"That's how baking works."

"Baking is a scam designed to make us all fat and happy."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Despite his complaints, you both worked through the recipe—measuring (badly), mixing (chaotically), and trying desperately not to laugh too loud when Osamu accidentally got flour in his hair.

"You look like you're going gray early," you snickered, pointing at the white streaks in his dark hair.

"Distinguished. I look distinguished." He wiped flour on your nose in retaliation, grinning like a devil.

"Asshole!"

"Shh! You're going to wake your parents!"

"You started it!"

"Lies and slander."

You grabbed more flour, fully intending to dump it on his head.

He grabbed your wrist, and suddenly you were way too close, faces inches apart, both covered in flour like idiots.

"Truce?" he whispered.

"Fine. Truce."

He let go, and you both went back to mixing, carefully not looking at each other.

What the fuck was that?

"Okay, now we just put these in the oven and wait for either delicious cookies or a house fire," Osamu said, sliding the tray into the oven with the confidence of someone who had never actually baked before.

"So comforting."

"I aim to comfort."

Twenty minutes later, your kitchen smelled amazing.

The cookies were slightly burnt on the edges and undercooked in the middle, a weird combination that should have been disgusting but somehow worked.

"These are the best cookies I've ever had," Osamu declared, eating one while it was still way too hot and immediately regretting it. "Fuck, that's hot. Shit. Why didn't you warn me?"

"I didn't think I needed to warn you that cookies fresh from the oven are hot."

"Fair point." He ate another one anyway. "But seriously, these are amazing."

"They're terrible."

"Terribly delicious." He grabbed another one, juggling it between his hands because it was still burning hot. "We should do this every week. Midnight baking. It'll be our thing."

"Our thing?"

"Yeah. Every friendship needs a thing. This is ours. Midnight baking and moderate property damage."

You laughed, eating your own cookie. It really was terrible. But somehow, that made it better.

"Okay. Deal. But next time we're making brownies."

"Yes. I knew you were my kind of person."

Osamu, you discovered, was an incredible artist.

He'd show up at your window with sketchbooks filled with elaborate drawings—dark, surreal images of cats with too many eyes, people with no faces, geometric patterns that seemed to move if you looked at them too long, disturbing scenes that were beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

"Holy shit," you said one night, flipping through one of his sketchbooks. "You're really fucking good at this."

"Thanks. It's the only thing keeping me sane." He flopped onto your bed, staring at your ceiling. "My parents hate it. They think art is a 'waste of time.' They want me to study medicine or law or something equally soul-crushing and boring."

"That's fucked up."

"Very fucked up." He sat up suddenly, grinning in that way that meant he had a terrible idea. "Want to draw on the walls?"

"What?"

"Your walls. They're so... blank. Boring. They need personality. Character. Chaos." He was already pulling out a marker from his pocket. "Come on. Live a little. Embrace the chaos."

"My parents will kill me!"

"Not if we draw on the inside of your closet. They'll never look there. Parents never look in closets. It's like, a scientific fact."

He had a point.

Ten minutes later, you were both sitting in your closet with markers, drawing elaborate designs on the white walls like delinquent Picassos.

Osamu drew a massive cat with approximately fifteen eyes, each one more detailed and disturbing than the last. The thing looked like it could see into your soul and judge you for your sins.

"That's fucking creepy," you said.

"Thank you. I was going for nightmare fuel."

You drew a terrible stick figure version of him falling off the tree outside.

"Rude," he said, but he was laughing. "That's not even accurate. I'm much more graceful when I almost die."

"You almost fell last Tuesday. I saw you."

"Almost doesn't count. Almost is basically the same as not falling at all."

You drew more falling stick figures, each one more elaborate than the last.

"You're mean."

"You climbed through my window at midnight and convinced me to vandalize my own closet. You don't get to call me mean."

"Fair point."

You both drew until you ran out of space, covering the closet walls in elaborate doodles and inside jokes and stupid drawings that would make absolutely no sense to anyone else.

There were quotes from books you both liked, terrible puns, elaborate scenes of your midnight adventures, and increasingly abstract designs that meant nothing and everything.

It was perfect.

"This is our art gallery," Osamu declared, standing back to admire your work. "Future generations will study this and wonder what the fuck was wrong with us."

"Bold of you to assume future generations will care."

"They will. We're going to be legendary."

"Legendarily stupid."

"Same thing, really."

Later that night, after the drawing was done, you both sat on your floor, eating the rest of the terrible cookies from earlier in the week.

"Can I ask you something?" Osamu said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever feel like... like you're just going through the motions? Like you're acting out a part in a play you never auditioned for?"

You looked at him. Really looked at him. His expression was vulnerable in a way it rarely was, all his usual sarcasm and jokes stripped away.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"I feel like that all the time. Like I'm watching my life happen from outside my body. Like none of it is real." He picked at the cookie in his hands. "My parents have this whole plan for my life. Medical school, then a 'respectable career,' then marriage to someone 'appropriate,' then kids, then dying having never actually lived. And I'm just supposed to... go along with it."

"That sounds fucking miserable."

"It is fucking miserable." He laughed, but it was bitter. "Sometimes I think about just... running away. Disappearing. Starting over somewhere where nobody knows me and I can be whoever I want."

"Would you actually do it?"

"I don't know. Probably not. I'm too much of a coward." He looked at you. "But it's nice to think about, you know? The possibility of escape."

"You're not a coward."

"Yes I am. I let my parents control every aspect of my life. I don't fight back. I just... accept it."

"You're sixteen. What are you supposed to do? You're still a minor."

"I know. But in two years, I'll be eighteen. An adult. And I'll have to make a choice—do what they want, or..." He trailed off.

"Or?"

"Or choose myself. And that's terrifying."

You grabbed his hand without thinking. "Whatever you choose, I'll be here. Okay? You're not alone in this."

He stared at your joined hands, then up at your face. Something shifted in his expression—something soft and vulnerable and grateful.

"Thanks. That means... a lot, actually."

"Always."

A year passed in a blur of midnight conversations, window signs, terrible baking, and escalating crimes.

You were fifteen now, and Osamu was sixteen, and somewhere along the way, things had started to feel... different.

You noticed things about him you hadn't before.

The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, forming little lines at the corners.

The way he always stole the best cookies but left you the ones with extra chocolate chips because he'd noticed they were your favorite.

The way he looked at you sometimes—like you were the only real thing in his world.

The way your heart did stupid acrobatic things when he smiled.

And lately, he'd started showing up to your room in just pajama pants.

No shirt.

Just... bare chest and messy hair and that stupid fucking grin.

The first time it happened, you'd nearly choked.

"Where's your shirt?" you'd demanded, trying very hard not to stare at his lean torso.

"It's hot," he'd said, flopping onto your bed like this was totally normal. "Summer. Remember?"

"It's not that hot."

"I run warm. Don't judge me."

But it kept happening. And you were definitely noticing.

The way his muscles moved when he reached for things.

The way his skin looked in the lamplight.

The way he'd stretch, arms above his head, completely unselfconscious.

Fuck.

You were developing feelings.

Actual, genuine, "oh shit I might be in love with my best friend and also I want to lick his abs" feelings.

This was bad.

This was really fucking bad.

"You're being weird," Osamu observed one night, sitting on your floor while you both worked on a puzzle. He was, predictably, shirtless. (Midnight puzzle-building had become another "thing.")

"I'm not being weird."

"You absolutely are. You've been quiet all night, and you're never quiet. It's unsettling. Plus you keep looking at me and then looking away really fast. Do I have something on my face? On my chest? Is there a bug on me?" He started examining his torso.

"There's no bug!"

"Then why are you being weird?"

Because you're half-naked and it's driving me fucking insane.

"I'm just tired."

"Bullshit." He shifted closer, studying your face with those intense dark eyes. "Come on. Tell me. We don't keep secrets, remember?"

We don't keep secrets.

Except you were. A massive, friendship-ending secret about how you wanted to kiss him so badly it physically hurt.

About how you thought about him constantly.

About how the idea of him dating someone else made you want to throw up.

"It's nothing," you muttered, focusing intensely on the puzzle piece in your hand. "Just... school shit."

He clearly didn't believe you, but he let it go. "Okay. But if you want to talk about your 'school shit,' I'm here. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

He smiled, soft and genuine, and your traitorous heart did another flip.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The feelings didn't go away.

If anything, they got worse.

Especially because Osamu had also started sleeping in your bed.

Not in a weird way. Just... your bed was comfier, and sometimes he'd fall asleep during your midnight conversations, and you didn't have the heart to wake him.

So you'd both end up in your bed, carefully maintaining a respectful distance, pretending this was totally normal and platonic.

Except it wasn't.

Not when you could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.

Not when you could hear his quiet breathing in the dark.

Not when you wanted so badly to just touch him, to close the distance, to—

"You're thinking too loud," Osamu mumbled one night, half-asleep. "I can hear your brain from here."

"Sorry."

"What are you thinking about?"

You. Always you.

"Nothing important."

"Liar." But he didn't push. Just rolled over, his back to you, and you tried very hard not to notice the way his muscles moved under his skin.

This was torture.

Another year passed.

You were sixteen, Osamu was seventeen, and your feelings had gone from "mild crush" to "completely and utterly in love with him in a way that was definitely not healthy."

The shirtless thing had become completely normal. He'd just show up, no shirt, and flop onto your bed or your floor or wherever, completely comfortable.

And you were dying.

"I have a question," you said one night, watching him stretch on your bed. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, and you could see the line of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Focus. Jesus fucking Christ, focus.

"Shoot."

"Why don't you ever wear a shirt when you come over?"

He looked at you, amused. "Does it bother you?"

"I didn't say that."

"So it doesn't bother you?"

"I didn't say that either."

He grinned, that infuriating, knowing grin. "You're blushing."

"I am not—"

"You absolutely are. Your face is red."

"It's hot in here!"

"Then I'm definitely keeping the shirt off." He stretched again, deliberately this time, the bastard. "Wouldn't want to overheat."

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it, laughing. "Violent and flustered. Interesting combination."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

He was right. You didn't.

You loved him so much it physically hurt.

You'd tried to get over it. You really had. You'd even gone on a date with some guy from the neighborhood—Kenji, who was nice enough but boring as fuck.

The date had been a disaster. He'd talked about soccer for an hour straight, and you'd spent the whole time thinking about Osamu.

When you got home, Osamu was waiting in your room, sprawled on your bed in just his pajama pants, reading a book.

"So. Date night," he said, not looking up from his book, but his jaw was tight. "How was it?"

"Terrible."

"Yeah?" He finally looked at you, and there was something in his eyes. "What happened?"

"He talked about soccer for an hour. I wanted to die."

"Soccer is boring as fuck."

"I know." You flopped onto the bed next to him, careful to maintain distance. "Worst date ever. Never again."

"Are you going to see him again?"

You looked at Osamu—really looked at him. He was trying to seem casual, but his whole body was tense, and he was gripping his book too hard.

"No. Definitely not."

He relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping. "Good. I mean—not good that your date sucked. That's bad. For you. But good that you're not seeing him again because he sounds terrible and you deserve better."

"Better?"

"Yeah. Someone who doesn't bore you with soccer talk. Someone who actually gets you. Someone who makes you laugh and doesn't make you want to fake your own death."

"And who would that be?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

Osamu opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

For a moment, you thought he was actually going to say it. Going to confess. Going to admit what you'd been feeling for years.

"I don't know," he said finally, looking away. "But... someone good. Someone who makes you happy."

Your heart sank.

Coward. He's a fucking coward. And so are you.

"Yeah. Someone good."

The moment passed, and you both pretended it hadn't happened.

But something had shifted.

Something had changed.

And you couldn't ignore it anymore.

When Osamu turned eighteen, his parents kicked him out, just like he'd predicted.

Your parents took him in without hesitation.

"Of course you can stay here," your mom had said. "For as long as you need."

He moved into the guest room.

Which lasted approximately one week before he was sleeping in your bed every night.

Not because anything was happening. Just because... that's where he wanted to be. And you weren't going to say no.

Your parents had eventually given up on the "separate rooms" thing after walking in on you both asleep on your bed (fully clothed, completely innocent) for the third time.

"Just... keep the door unlocked," your dad had said, looking deeply uncomfortable. "And... be responsible."

"Dad, we're not—"

"I don't want details. Just be responsible."

So now Osamu essentially lived in your room.

Which was both the best and worst thing ever.

Best because: you got to see him every day, spend every evening with him, fall asleep next to him.

Worst because: he was still walking around shirtless, and now you had to deal with it constantly.

"Do you own shirts?" you demanded one evening as he stretched on your bed, his bare torso on full display.

"Several. I just don't like wearing them."

"That's not a real answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." He grinned. "Does it bother you?"

Yes. It bothers me SO MUCH. It bothers me because I want to touch you and I can't and it's driving me fucking insane.

"No."

"Liar." He shifted closer, and suddenly he was right there, inches away, all bare skin and dark eyes and that stupid perfect face. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

"Fuck off."

"Make me."

It was an old joke. Said a thousand times.

But this time felt different.

This time, the air felt charged.

This time, you were both staring at each other, and neither of you was looking away.

"Osamu," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

I love you. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years and it's killing me.

"Nothing. Never mind."

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he rolled away, putting distance between you.

"Yeah. Never mind."

The tension kept building.

Every conversation felt loaded with unspoken words.

Every touch felt electric.

Every night in the same bed felt like torture and heaven at the same time.

You'd lie there in the dark, hyperaware of his breathing, the warmth of his body, the way he'd sometimes unconsciously move closer in his sleep.

And you'd wonder if he felt it too.

This... whatever this was.

"Can't sleep?" he asked one night, his voice quiet in the darkness.

"No."

"Me neither."

You both lay there in silence.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever think about... us?"

Your heart stopped. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... we've been friends for years. We live together now. We sleep in the same bed. Don't you think that's kind of... weird?"

"Do you think it's weird?"

"I asked you first."

"Osamu—"

"Because I think about it. A lot. About how this isn't normal. How normal friends don't do this. How we're..." He trailed off.

"How we're what?"

He was quiet for so long you thought he'd fallen asleep.

Then: "How we're more than friends. At least... I want us to be."

Everything stopped.

The world froze.

Time stopped.

"What?"

Osamu sat up, turning on the bedside lamp. The soft light illuminated his face, his bare chest, the vulnerable expression in his eyes.

"I'm in love with you," he said, his voice steady but his hands shaking. "I have been for years. Since we were like fifteen, maybe earlier. I don't know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way, you stopped being just my best friend and became... everything."

You couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

Couldn't do anything except stare at him.

"I know this is probably the worst timing ever," he continued, words spilling out now like he'd been holding them in for too long. "I know I'm a disaster. I know I have nothing to offer. No money, no plans, no future beyond 'try not to fuck up too badly.' But I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way. It's driving me insane. Every day I see you and I want to kiss you, to hold you, to be more than just your friend. And it's torture."

"Osamu—"

"Let me finish. Please." He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture. "I've been climbing through your window for years. Sleeping in your bed. Walking around half-naked like an idiot because I wanted... I don't know, I wanted you to see me. To notice me. To feel even a fraction of what I feel for you. And I know that's probably fucked up and manipulative but I didn't know what else to do—"

You kissed him.

Just launched yourself at him and kissed him, cutting off his spiral mid-sentence.

He made a surprised noise, then melted into it, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

The kiss was desperate and messy and perfect.

Years of tension, years of wanting, years of pretending—all of it came pouring out.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"I love you too," you said, your voice shaking. "You fucking idiot. I've been in love with you for years. I thought—I thought you just saw me as a friend. I thought I was going crazy."

"What?" He pulled back to look at you, his eyes wide. "Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I just wanted to be friends?"

"You never said anything!"

"Neither did you!"

"I was scared!"

"So was I!"

You both stared at each other for a moment.

Then you started laughing.

Hysterical, relieved, slightly manic laughter.

"We're idiots," you managed between laughs.

"The biggest idiots," he agreed, pulling you back into his arms. "We could have been doing this for years."

"We wasted so much time."

"Then let's not waste any more."

He kissed you again, and this time it was slower, deeper, more intense.

His hands moved to your face, cradling it gently, like you were something precious. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, and you felt his tongue brush against your lips. You opened for him immediately, and the sensation sent electricity down your spine.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you onto his lap.

You went willingly, straddling him, and fuck, this was everything you'd ever wanted.

His skin was warm under your hands, all lean muscle and softness, and you couldn't stop touching him.

"Fuck," he breathed against your mouth. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Same."

He kissed you again, harder this time, almost desperate, and you could feel the years of pent-up wanting in every movement.

His hands slid under your shirt, just barely, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made you shiver.

"Is this okay?" he whispered.

"Yes. God, yes."

He kissed you deeper, his tongue exploring your mouth, and you made a sound you'd never made before—needy and desperate and wanting.

"Fuck, I love you," he murmured against your lips. "I love you so fucking much."

Three months of dating Osamu was both exactly what you expected and somehow better.

You couldn't keep your hands off each other.

Every moment alone turned into kissing, touching, exploring.

Your parents had implemented a "door stays open" rule after walking in on you both making out on your bed (still fully clothed, but the rule stood).

But today was different.

Today, Osamu had a surprise.

"I'm taking you somewhere," he announced one morning in summer.

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"I hate surprises."

"You'll like this one. Trust me."

He drove for about two hours, and when you finally arrived, you understood.

The beach.

The same beach you'd talked about visiting together for years.

"Holy fuck," you breathed, staring at the endless blue water.

"I know, right?" He grinned, grabbing a bag from the back seat. "I figured we could use a day away. Just us."

You spent the day swimming, building sandcastles, eating terrible sandwiches he'd packed, and just... being together.

As the sun started to set, painting the sky in oranges and pinks, you both sat on the beach, watching the waves.

"This is perfect," you said, leaning against him.

"Yeah." He wrapped his arm around you. "Hey, can I tell you something?"

"Always."

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Your heart stopped.

"I know we're young," he continued. "I know I still don't have my shit together. But I know this. I know us. And I don't want to imagine a future where you're not in it."

You were crying. "I love you so much."

"I love you too. So much." He stood, pulling you up with him. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

He led you to the water's edge.

"What are we—"

He picked you up.

Bridal style.

"OSAMU WHAT THE FUCK—"

"Something romantic! Just go with it!"

"PUT ME DOWN—"

He walked into the ocean, the water getting deeper, and you were laughing and screaming and holding onto him.

When the water was waist-deep, he stopped.

And looked at you with an expression so full of love it made your breath catch.

"I love you," he said. "You're everything. My best friend, my partner in crime, the person who saved me when I didn't even know I needed saving. You're it for me."

"I love you too. More than anything."

And then he kissed you.

Deeply.

Passionately.

Desperately.

Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, like he was trying to pour every ounce of feeling into this one kiss.

His hands cupped your face, his fingers threading through your wet hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss even further.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him, and fuck, you could feel every inch of his body against yours.

His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, and you moaned against his lips.

He made a low, desperate sound, his hands sliding down your body, gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

The kiss was everything.

Passionate, consuming, intense.

Years of friendship, years of longing, years of love—all of it culminated in this moment.

His lips moved against yours with desperate hunger, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy him.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, years of pent-up wanting pouring out.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I'm never going to get tired of kissing you."

"Good. Because I'm never going to stop."

He kissed you again, softer this time but no less intense, his lips moving against yours with reverent devotion.

The waves crashed around you, the sun set behind you, and nothing else existed.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this.

"I'm never letting you go," he murmured against your lips.

"Promise?"

"Promise. You're stuck with me forever."

"Good."

And as the sun disappeared below the horizon, as the stars started to appear, you kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

Because you could.

Because he was yours.

Because this was forever.

I was shirtless like 90% of the time and you STILL didn't get the hint? I was practically waving a neon sign that said 'PLEASE NOTICE MY ABS.'- Osamu Dazai

ty for reading!