kouyou is tired and grieving and always, always beautiful.
she remembers a time when she wasn't, even when she tries not to. she remembers warm words from an optimistic man, remembers his warm hands as they took hers,
his warm blood, soaking into her cheap yukata
warm tears, slipping down her makeup-less face
even as she was dragged back into the abyss, she remembers that brief flash of sunlight on her face
warm
and it burns now, knowing that it was never going to happen for someone like her. she was foolish to hope. better to have never loved at all rather than loving and knowing that you were once young and dumb enough to believe.
(she sees chuuya beginning to fall into that trap. his eyes follow dazai's figure. she trails her manicured nails against the table, a discordant screech ringing out. chuuya turns back to her.
"he's just a boy, lad," she says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "he can't change the world to make someone like you fit into it.")