Osamu Dazai

In elementary school, Osamu studied easily but without much interest. He grasped the material quickly, but detested routine: sitting up straight, writing with a ruler, answering questions with a template. His notebooks were filled with drawings in the margins, short absurd stories, and caricatures of his classmates—not malicious, but rather desperate attempts to hold their attention. Teachers called him "gifted but lazy," but he would just shrug and smile again, as if it were all a trivial joke. At the same time, he had an incredible eye for detail: he noticed which kids were hiding their tears, who was lying to avoid a bad grade, who was actually stronger than they appeared. He used this observational skill neither for good nor for evil—it was simply to keep himself afloat: if you know others' weaknesses, you're harder to hurt.

Osamu Dazai was born in a quiet suburb of a mid-sized Russian city—a neighborhood where new high-rise buildings stood next to the remains of old dachas, and in the mornings the air was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes. His parents were quiet and busy: his father an engineer at a local factory, his mother an accountant at a construction firm. The family valued stability and predictability, and emotionality was considered a flaw best kept private.

From childhood, Osamu knew how to be easygoing. He learned early on that smiling and saying "yes" made adults lose their attention faster. He wasn't obedient out of a genuine desire to please—it was simply easier to breathe. By the age of three or four, he could already deftly detect when his parents were tired and quietly picked up his toys himself, without waiting for a scolding. This ability to read the moods of others wasn't sensitivity, but a tactic: he wanted to be left alone, and he used his charm as a shield.

In kindergarten, Osamu quickly became the kid who made everyone laugh. He made up ridiculous stories, imitated the teachers, and did it with such a disarming smile that even the strictest teachers couldn't be seriously angry with him. Behind this cheerful facade hid something strange for a child—a heavy, sticky feeling that he was doing everything wrong and would never be "right." He joked to relieve this heaviness, and laughter worked: people looked at him, they noticed him, and in those moments, he wasn't just a nobody.

Osamu Dazai was the kind of student at school that teachers sighed about, rolled their eyes at, and still gave him a C or B because, "He's smart, but he's just lazy." His academic performance hung in the balance: he was never a straight-A student, but he never failed either. In ninth grade, his GPA hovered somewhere between 3.6 and 3.8—just enough to avoid calling his parents on an emergency call, but enough for his homeroom teacher to periodically remind him, "Dazai, you could have gotten an A if you'd just opened a textbook at home."

Osamu's breadth of knowledge was comical: he could skip classes, sleep, spend time on his phone, listen to music, and laze around, yet still get top marks. Another distinguishing feature was his ability to quickly distill key points. His notes were odd: half the pages were neat bullet points, the other half were drawings, cartoons, and absurd commentary in the margins. Yet, these notes also contained surprisingly precise formulations and insightful examples.

Teachers noted his keen intellect and ability to "see through a trap," but were frustrated by his lack of commitment. His classmates, however, perceived him as someone who knew a little more than he let on: he'd casually drop a fact that stumped even the most accomplished students, then dismiss it with, "Oh, I read it somewhere, I can't remember where."

Bright, "perfect" colors—snow white, acid pink, glossy gold. *They seemed false to him, as if they were trying to sell happiness in a package. Such "pure" brightness gave him a headache, and he wanted to hide somewhere a little gray and shabby.

• Saccharine smells—vanilla, sweet perfume, the scent of "sea breeze" air freshener. For him, they were a lie: an attempt to disguise reality with something sweet and harmless. He hated it when the world pretended to be better than it was. A silence that demanded an explanation. Not ordinary peace, but that ringing silence when everyone is looking at you and waiting for you to say something, because "that's how it's supposed to be." At such moments he felt as if he was being stretched like an elastic band, and the only thing that could save him was to joke again so that everyone would turn away.

Animals kept "for comfort" and forced to be cute. He wasn't cruel to them, but he felt uneasy about this forced cuteness: when a cat is given a bow, or a parrot is forced to say "hello." He felt it was the same kind of falsehood, only on a smaller scale.

Food that masks flavor—processed foods, dishes with tons of sauces, fast food. He didn't like it when flavor was hidden behind spices and chemicals: he wanted to feel what he was eating, even if it was just boiled potatoes.

Sweets that "hug" you with their taste—nougat bars, marshmallows, cotton candy. They were too overwhelming for him: they wanted you to love them and left you no choice. He preferred a taste that gave you the right to say, "I don't like it."

Activities that required being "real" and "open"—group trainings, heart-to-heart conversations, mandatory declarations of feelings. He was terrified of these situations, where sincerity was demanded on a schedule. He felt that sincerity wasn't something he could deliver on command, and such attempts only made the emptiness inside him even louder.

Any form of ostentatious virtue signaling—when someone loudly does a “good deed” for the sake of applause.

His hobby was chatting with someone about nothing in particular in a dimly lit entryway or on a rooftop. He enjoyed conversations where no one expected him to give the "right" answers. He also loved making up ridiculous stories on the fly: the more absurd, the better. It was his way of keeping reality at bay—if you turn it into a joke, it won't have time to consume you.

His favorite color was a dirty orange, like a sunset over an industrial park. *Not bright, not festive, but as if the city had thrown an old shawl over itself: there was weariness in it, but also a stubborn warmth. Osamu loved this shade because it didn't pretend to be beautiful—it simply was, and in this honesty there was something akin to his mood.

• The smell was smoke and rain. *The smell of wet asphalt after a downpour, mixed with a slight soot from the boiler room, had an almost sedative effect on him: there was no false cleanliness in it, only raw reality. He also loved the smell of old books—dusty, slightly bitter: as if the past hadn't gone away, but was simply sitting quietly on the shelf, waiting to be noticed.

• The sound was the sound of rain on a tin roof and the hum of a commuter train in the distance. *He liked it when a sound didn't require a response: it simply played in the background, filling the silences that would otherwise have been too heavy for his thoughts. Sometimes he would deliberately linger under the awning to listen to the raindrops beating out a rhythm and, for a few minutes, stop being "that cheerful guy."

• Animal - a crow. *Not because of romance, but because of their brazen independence: they don't try to please, don't expect praise, but simply do what they think is right. Osamu respected this freedom—and envied it a little. He could watch for a long time as a crow busily walked along the sidewalk, as if the whole world owed it a way.

• Food - fried potatoes with onions and black bread. *Simple, filling, unpretentious: when you eat it, you don't need to pretend to appreciate fine tastes. He also loved hot broth—not for the sake of delicacy, but for the feeling of warmth slowly spreading through his body, making the world a little less prickly for a second.

• Sweetness—sour candy. Not cloying caramel, but the kind that makes your cheekbones ache and makes you wince. There was something honest in that sharp, almost unpleasant wave of flavor: the sweetness didn't creep up on him, but announced itself immediately, and he could either accept it or spit it out.

Outside of school, Osamu chooses clothes that allow him to hide while still appearing indifferent. Most often, it's a dark hoodie with a slightly stretched collar, a simple T-shirt underneath, a few distressed jeans, and the same sneakers. Sometimes he'll throw on a light bomber jacket or an old coat that looks like it was worn in the previous decade: there's something theatrical about it, but without being pretentious. He loves layering: a scarf, a hood, a raised collar—all of this works as a shield, behind which he can become invisible for a second. His accessories include a small backpack with stickers and a couple of dangling keychains: he doesn't intentionally collect them, but he also keeps them on because they've become part of his usual look. On hot days, Osamu tries to wear minimal layers, but avoids an overtly "beachy" look—he feels uncomfortable being too revealing. He chooses loose T-shirts made of thin cotton, light but not bright: dusty gray, muted blue, faded. He doesn't like shorts: he thinks they're too vulnerable, as if you're inviting everyone to look at your legs. Instead, he wears light, loose trousers made of thin fabric that don't cling to his skin. On his feet, he wears the same sneakers, but with thin socks or no socks at all, if possible. He protects himself from the sun with a cap with a wide visor or a hood pulled low, so as not to see too many faces and avoid being caught by others' glances.
In cold weather, Osamu transforms into a walking cocoon of layers. Under his jacket is a sweatshirt, under that a T-shirt, and on top is a bulky jacket or an old coat with heavy pockets in which something is always jingling: keys, change, crumpled notes. He wraps a scarf so that it covers the lower part of his face: this is not only for warmth, but also a way to avoid answering right away if someone calls out to him. His gloves are simple, without unnecessary details, sometimes a little worn—he doesn't throw them away as long as they keep him warm. On his head is either a hat that fits tightly to the shape of his head, or a hood that he pulls down to his eyebrows. In tacos

Osamu is slender, slightly above average height (approximately 175–178 cm), with a slight, casual grace, as if he's constantly balancing between "I'm just stopping by for a second" and "I'm the main character here." He has medium-length dark brown hair: it's not perfectly styled, but slightly curled, always falling in a careless strand across his forehead—he'll flick it back every now and then. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, with an expression that suggests he notices everything and isn't particularly surprised by anything. His gaze is quick and piercing, but he often hides it behind a half-smile or lowers his eyelids, feigning boredom. His features are delicate but not fragile: there's a stubborn hardness to them that breaks through when he stops pretending to be carefree. His skin is pale, as if he rarely spends time in bright sunlight and even more often sits in partial shade. His torso, neck, and arms are tightly wrapped in bandages, leaving only his head, hands, and legs exposed. At school, Osamu adheres to the school uniform, but in a way that doesn't make it look "proper." If regulations require a jacket, he wears it unbuttoned, and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, as if he's just been in a hurry and hasn't had time to tidy himself up. He almost never fastens his shirt to the top button—the collar is slightly open, adding a deliberately relaxed air to his look. His trousers aren't perfectly pressed; slight creases are allowed because "it's more comfortable." Among other details, he wears old sneakers instead of neat shoes: they're scuffed but comfortable, and he's proud of them as proof that he doesn't strive for ostentatious neatness. Sometimes you'll spot him wearing a thin scarf or a casually tied tie, which looks more like an accessory than part of his uniform. On his wrist is a simple watch or a thin bracelet, which he twists when nervous or procrastinating.