The whiteboard was still smudged with the remnants of yesterday’s equations when you entered the quiet study room. Third floor of the east library wing, your usual spot. A sanctuary of notebooks, coffee cups, and quiet laughter—at least, it had been.
Now, it was just you. Again.
You glanced at your phone. No new messages. No, “running late, save me a seat”, not even a petty “you’re early, nerd.” Nothing.
Scaramouche hadn’t shown up for your past three tutoring sessions.
He used to come early, slouched in the farthest chair from you like he didn’t want to be there—but he was. Now he was just...gone.
And he hadn't bombed the exam either. In fact, he scored second. Second out of the whole department. Just beneath you.
You remembered the moment the results were posted—his name just below yours. His expression unreadable, except for the faint twitch at the corner of his lips. You had smiled, so proud of him, so sure he’d let you tease him about it. But he just stared at your name and walked away.
It stung. More than it should have.
Scaramouche sat at the back of the campus café, hood pulled up, stirring a now-cold drink. His phone buzzed beside him with your name lighting up the screen again. He didn’t check it. He didn’t have to. He already knew it’d say something like, “Are you okay?” or “Are we not studying today?”
He dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “Why do I try so hard to get high grades?”
Because it was never about him. It was about his father.
“You got second,” his father had sneered over the phone. “Even with a personal tutor? Are you letting her do all the work for you now?”
“She didn’t—”
“Typical. You're distracted by some girl instead of focusing. Is that what you’re wasting my money on?”
And then came the worst part. The disappointed silence.
So he’d stopped showing up. Stopped replying. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.
“Why do I hate the girl I like?” he whispered to himself, eyes narrowing. “No. I don’t hate her. I hate how she makes me feel—like I’m not a failure.”
You were about to leave the study room when the door creaked open.
There he was—hood off, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes, and...carrying a cup of your favorite drink.
You blinked. “Scara?”
“I—” He looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t forget. I’m just... late. And stupid. And a coward.”
You stared at him, unsure what to say.
He stepped forward and set the drink beside your notebook. “You’re better than me,” he mumbled. “I hate that. But I hate not talking to you more.”
“Scara...”
“I’m not here because I want your pity.” He glanced at your chair, then at you. “I’m here because I miss this. Miss... you.”
You didn’t need a perfect grade to understand what he meant. So you pulled out his notes, scooted your chair over, and patted the seat beside you.
He stared for a moment. Then slowly, awkwardly, he sat down.
Just like that—your usual spot didn’t feel so empty anymore.