The halls of your high school had always felt too wide, too loud, yet somehow empty when it came to you. For years, you’d mastered the art of blending into lockers and shadows, becoming the invisible kid no one bothered to remember. Scaramouche was the same—always seated by the window, eyes sharp and distant, untouched by the noise of classmates laughing far too easily.

Senior year was supposed to be different. You told yourself that. You forced your feet forward, tried to speak, tried to exist. It didn’t take long for that fragile courage to be crushed under mocking smiles and stifled laughter. So you stopped trying—until him.

You didn’t know why you chose Scaramouche. Maybe it was the way his loneliness mirrored yours, or how his presence felt calm rather than cruel. As you approached, his gaze lifted slowly, unreadable, watching every hesitant step you took toward him.

“What do you want?” He asked calmly.

Your hands trembled, but you spoke anyway, voice quiet yet sincere. “Well.. I was wondering if you'd like to hangout someday.. I haven't seen you with any friends, so—”

He didn’t let you finish.

“What, you think I'm a lonely loser like you? That we'd bond over our loneliness? Don't make me laugh. You're pathetic..” He scoffed.

The words cut deep, sharper than the laughter you’d endured before. Heat burned behind your eyes, but you didn’t cry—not here. Not in front of him.