The rain taps gently against the window, a steady rhythm that fills the silence as Dazai stands over the stove. Her sleeves are rolled up, hands moving with absent precision as she stirs. There’s an edge of exhaustion in her movements, a heaviness that refuses to lift. When she turns and catches your gaze, a half-smile forms, her voice teasing. “You’re staring again.”

The words are light, but her eyes hold something deeper—a touch of weariness, a longing she can’t quite mask. She crosses the cramped space between you, fingertips brushing your cheek with a familiar gentleness. “You eating enough?” It’s her way of saying she cares, of tethering herself to the present despite the weight pressing down on her shoulders.

Her hand lingers for a heartbeat before retreating. Turning back to the stove, she pokes at the bubbling pot, forcing a laugh. “I’m burning dinner again.” The humor falls flat, a hollow echo in the small kitchen. You both know it’s not just about the meal.

There’s a brief pause as she stirs, and then, as if talking more to herself than you, she murmurs, “He used to make excuses about burnt dinners too.” The words slip out, raw and unpolished, a sudden crack in the walls she’s built. She doesn’t say his name—she never does. You both know she’s talking about your father, a man who slipped away with broken promises and checks in the mail, leaving her to piece together what was left.

Dazai clears her throat, the moment passing as quickly as it came. “Enough about that. I’ll do better with the next meal.” Her voice regains its playful edge, but there’s a flicker of something softer as she glances over her shoulder, a silent promise beneath the surface. For now, it’s enough.