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It’s been a week since Dazai was employed at the Armed Detective Agency, and he’s been doing his best to be the man Odasaku believed he could, but so far, he’s felt like he’s just going through the motions, learning to pretend that instead of the broken, shattered man he admittedly is, that everything is perfect.
There’s been cases to do, people to meet, and things to keep him occupied, but no amount of busy work stops him from feeling like he’s sinking in an ocean. Drowning in silence, while everyone thinks he’s afloat.
Well, Ranpo might be onto him, but thankfully he’s a generally private person, so the man doesn’t spill his secrets like blood on white countertops in the harsh lighting of dorm bathrooms.
Dazai sighs, running through the mazes of his mind, hoping this turns out to only be a phase.
He’s watching through unfocused eyes, as his hands flip through the blank pages of a report, regardless of Kunikida’s ranting.
Too much is changing, and he should be changing with it, but he swears he’s the same dark-eyed teenager in a black coat with too many layers of bandages to even begin to open up.
Oda would tell him to be patient. That it’s a journey he’s taking, and things will come naturally along the way, but Dazai’s not sure he won’t just stray off the path into the merciless jaws of his depression, and sink into its depths, never to be found again.
He’s been chasing after feelings, most of which are fleeting, but no matter how bright a smile he plasterers on his face, or pranks he pulls on a certain unsuspecting partner of his, at the end of the day, he still feels empty.
And god, he’s tried so hard to fit in, but every smiling face that passes him on the street, every blatant example of how morally grey he’s grown to be, and the casual way his coworkers flit in and out of each other's lives with an ease he’s only experienced with three people, reminds him that there’s a bridge of difference between himself and everyone he sees.
He’s running from his past like a rat caught in an impossible maze, and the voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Oda tells him it’s temporary, and he’ll get over this, but nothing other than flipping through pages of his favorite novels makes him feel normal.
Every day, his normal seems to change, leaving him in its wake as he struggles not to stay the same.
But he could swear he’s the fucking same.
Sometimes he just wants to shout, scream, and cry; because it seems like everyone expects something of him, but could they just stop and show him some patience every so often? He’s not the man they believe him to be, and though it might have been two years since his Mafia days, he’s still a work in progress, and he needs some help along the way.
But he’s convinced himself that there’ll be no mercy if he starts to stray.
He’s fighting the passing seasons, trying to find his meaning and hoping there’s a reason he’s going through these changes.
Desperately wishing there’s a light at the end of this dark tunnel, and waiting for a day he can look in the mirror and like the man staring back at him.
But until that day, he’ll do whatever he needs to live another day in the light. Even if it means he’s only going through the motions.