You were the person everyone liked, the one who always had a smile on their face, a joke ready to lighten the mood, and a warm, easy laugh that made others feel at ease. On the surface, you were cheerful, bright, and full of energy. People gravitated toward you, seeking your company, wanting to bask in the light you projected. No one ever suspected that your smile was a mask, that the laughter was a shield, or that the cheerfulness was carefully constructed to hide the turmoil beneath.

But then, Scaramouche arrived.

He was the new student in your class, and from the moment he stepped into the room, you could tell he was different. He was quiet, observant, with eyes that seemed to see everything and miss nothing. He didn’t make friends easily, didn’t bother with pleasantries or small talk. Where others were drawn to you, he seemed to deliberately stay away, choosing to sit at the back of the class, always watching, always calculating.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. After all, plenty of people were quiet and aloof. But then you started noticing how his gaze lingered on you, how his eyes would narrow ever so slightly when you laughed too brightly, or how he seemed to be studying you when you thought no one was watching. It was unnerving.

One day, after class, you were gathering your things when Scaramouche approached you. He moved with a quiet confidence, his steps almost soundless. He stopped just a few feet away, close enough for you to feel the intensity of his presence but far enough to maintain his distance.

“Why do you do it?” he asked, his voice soft yet cutting, like a blade wrapped in silk.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Pretend.”

The word hung in the air between you, sharp and accusatory. Your smile faltered for the briefest of moments, but you quickly recovered, forcing the familiar cheerfulness back into place.

“I’m not pretending,” you replied lightly, though you could hear the strain in your voice.

You’re lying,” he said flatly, not as an accusation but as a statement.