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Chuuya hadn’t planned to spend Christmas Eve standing in the middle of Dazai’s mess of an apartment, but life had a funny way of ruining his plans.
He’d only come to retrieve the scarf Dazai had borrowed months ago and, predictably, never returned. It was cold outside, snow piling on the streets in thick drifts, and he didn’t have time for Dazai’s usual chaos. Yet the moment he stepped into the apartment, he was greeted by a disaster.
Books lay scattered across the floor, half-empty tea mugs balanced precariously on the edges of furniture, and there was an unmistakable pile of laundry shoved into a corner.
“Of course, the bastard’s gone and left me with this,” Chuuya muttered under his breath, shrugging off his coat. Dazai had conveniently disappeared a few days ago, leaving behind only a vague message about a “holiday adventure” that Chuuya didn’t care enough to decipher. He wasn’t worried about the idiot getting himself killed—Dazai had a knack for surviving things he had no business surviving—but he was annoyed enough to let himself get caught up in tidying the place.
As he worked, he noticed a box shoved onto the top shelf of a bookcase, its edges worn and lid slightly bent. It didn’t look like it belonged there, almost too neat for Dazai’s usual style of organized chaos. Chuuya hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the lid, before giving in to curiosity and pulling it down.
Inside was a pile of letters, folded and crumpled, written on all sorts of paper—stationery, napkins, the backs of envelopes. Chuuya frowned, unfolding the top one. The handwriting was uneven and messy, the kind of scrawl only a child could manage.
Dear Santa,
I don’t know if you’re real, but Mom said you were, so I’m writing just in case. Could you bring her back? Dad says she’s in heaven, but I don’t think she is. She wouldn’t leave me alone like this. She always said I was her favorite person, so maybe she just got lost. If you find her, can you tell her to come home? I promise I’ve been good, even though Dad says I’m not. Dad has been yelling more since she left. I miss her. Please bring her back.
Chuuya froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he set the letter aside and reached for another, this one written on the torn corner of a school notebook.
Dear Santa,
Everyone at school says I’m weird. They laugh at me because I don’t talk much, but they laugh even more when I do. Yesterday, I told them I wanted to be a doctor someday, and they said I’d probably just poison people. I wouldn’t, though. I’d be careful. I think it would be nice to help people feel better. Could you bring me a book about doctors? Maybe if I study hard, they’ll stop laughing at me.
Chuuya’s chest tightened. He knew Dazai could be cryptic and self-deprecating, but this was something else entirely. These letters weren’t jokes or manipulations—they were raw, painfully honest glimpses into someone who had once been a lonely, scared child.
Another letter caught his eye, written on what looked like a scrap of wrapping paper. The handwriting was a little steadier but still clumsy.
Dear Santa,
Do you think stars get lonely? I look at them a lot, especially at night when everything is quiet. They’re so far away from each other, and no one can ever reach them. I think maybe they shine so people won’t know how lonely they are. Sometimes I feel like a star, too, but it’s hard to keep shining when no one notices. Could you bring me a star I can keep? It doesn’t have to be a big one—just something small so I don’t feel so far away from everything.
Chuuya exhaled shakily, setting the letter down with trembling hands. He glanced back at the box, half-tempted to put the lid back on and leave it alone, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for another.
This one was different. The handwriting had changed, sharper and more deliberate, but the words still carried the same weight of quiet desperation.
Dear Santa,
I don’t think I’m very good at making friends. Everyone says I’m too quiet, or too loud, or too… wrong. I don’t really know how to be the kind of person people like. Could you bring me a friend? Not the kind who talks to me because they have to, but someone who really wants to be around me. If that’s too hard, maybe you could bring me something to fix myself. I think I might be broken.
Chuuya swallowed hard, his throat tight. He had never thought of Dazai as someone who cared about things like friendships or fitting in. Dazai was always so infuriatingly sure of himself, always the one pulling strings, always the one in control. But these letters painted a different picture—a lonely, uncertain boy who didn’t know how to reach out.
The last letter in the box stopped him cold.
Dear Santa,
I don’t think I believe in you anymore, but I guess old habits die hard. If you’re still out there, could you bring me a reason to stay? It doesn’t have to be big. Just something small. I’m running out of reasons, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this. I don’t know if anyone would notice if I was gone, but maybe you would.
Chuuya sat back on his heels, the letter still clutched in his hands. The apartment around him was silent, the faint hum of the heater the only sound. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the words on the page.
Then he stood up.
—
When Dazai returned to his apartment the next morning, the first thing he noticed was how different it looked.
A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, its branches strung with warm, twinkling lights. Beneath it was a neat pile of gifts wrapped in shiny paper, their bows slightly crooked but charming nonetheless. The air smelled of cinnamon and fresh pastries, and a single stocking hung by the window.
On the table was a note written in Chuuya’s precise handwriting:
You’ve been writing to Santa for years, idiot. Consider this his answer.
For once, Dazai didn’t have a clever quip or a teasing remark. He stood there in the quiet of his apartment, staring at the tree, the presents, the stocking, and the care that had gone into every detail. Slowly, he walked over to the table, his fingers brushing over the note.
The gifts weren’t extravagant—books, warm socks, a new scarf—but they were thoughtful in a way that made Dazai’s chest ache. He sat down on the couch, pulling the soft blanket draped over the armrest around his shoulders, and let out a quiet laugh.
“Chuuya, you sap,” he murmured, but his voice was softer than usual, almost reverent.
The room was silent, but for the first time in years, it didn’t feel empty.