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“Kaname! Kaname!” A voice calls out, followed by heavy footsteps against worn pavement. Awkwardly, he comes to a stop before the smaller teen, sweating slightly in the hot sun, which beams down and leaves a searing heat clinging to his black-dominated outfit. The girl’s reddish eyes turn, her gaze focusing on him, before a smile breaks out on her pale face.
“Hi Osamu!” Her smile is polite, not quite reaching her eyes, though she seems relaxed, almost. Heads turn to him, tilting with strange, foreign looks. Faces are a blur for him when he’s with Madoka. Swiftly, he turns on his heel, and Madoka follows. Madoka Kaname, the puzzle he cannot solve. She speaks of friends, ones he has not met, of schoolwork — whilst bearing a uniform he hasn’t seen, not ever. The bubbly enigma of Japan.
“How’s Tatsuya?” He muses aloud, looking over his shoulder. It’s foggy, but he remembers her showing a photo of the boy. He looked.. well, unusual.
“He’s alright. He’s not been sleeping great, but he’s fine apart from it.”
Her eyes stay trained ahead, her words quiet, “Chuuya?”
“..Ah, don’t mention him.” Is his only reply.
Madoka is a nice girl. Dazai’s not sure why she chose to hang out with him. She showed up one day, when he was a few years younger, and consistently showed up for him — she doesn’t seem to have changed much, but he had come to the conclusion that she was simply an early bloomer, so it’d be harder to notice. She’s always gone by the time anyone else comes to Dazai. Regardless, she’s good company. With little hesitation, the two continue onwards, footsteps creating a rhythm.
Madoka is a strange girl. She talks of love, and joy, and hope. The very same lights he is deprived of, and can only pray to experience through the beam of his dear friend, Madoka. She speaks of her life, though generic and dull. She can talk about his for hours — recalling details he never remembered sharing. Admittedly, he’s awfully forgetful about the small details, the ones unimportant. Madoka is a cruel trick, played on him to show what has been corrupted in his own body through despair.
By the time they reach the park, the Sun bathes the hills in a pinkish-orangey glow. It’s nice, actually. He doesn’t get much free time, but he’s glad to spend it with her. He never stops to appreciate the beauty in life, for his own glasses are fogged up and dirtied with misery.
Upon climbing the hill, and reaching the top, both teens settle on the edge, with Madoka laying on her side and Dazai kneeling beside her.
“Ready? 3,2..”
“1!” As Dazai reaches the end of the count, he gently pushes her down the hill. She rolls, picking up speed, giggling. He gets up to follow her, but by the time he reaches the end, she’s not there.
“Madoka..?”
“..Madoka..”
Passers-by turn to look at him, gazes confused. He doesn’t pay mind.
“Madoka!”
“Madoka!”
It’s a while before he stops searching, before he gives up. He can’t do much but go home, after all. She was just a girl, he repeats in his head. His eyes feel moist, fluttering shut as a warm tear sheds onto his cheek.
Madoka, the angel he saw with his own eyes. He will remember her by that.