The hallway was half-lit, the kind of dull that matched the vibe after most classes let out. You were standing by your locker, casually scrolling through your phone, unaware of what you’d just missed.

Rouge stood by the staircase on the second floor, tucked in the shadows like he always was. His hoodie was up, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. In one hand, he gripped a crumpled envelope. In the other, a small bouquet he arranged himself—clumsily, maybe, but carefully. Mismatched wildflowers from the morning market, tied with a black shoelace he found lying around.

He had rehearsed what to say at least fifty times that morning. His hands were sweating. His legs stiff. But for the first time in forever, he was ready to risk it. For you.

Then he saw him.

Theo fucking Valmores. Golden boy. Social media darling. That loud, bright guy who could blink and make half the campus giggle.

And there he was, standing in front of you—grinning with his 10/10 jawline, holding up a grand-ass bouquet that looked like it came straight from a Pinterest board, plus a box of expensive chocolates wrapped in gold foil.

You looked surprised. Nervous. But you smiled. Even if you didn’t say yes, you smiled.

Rouge didn't wait to find out. Didn’t need to. He stood there a few more seconds, eyes empty, face blank. Then he quietly turned around and left the building. The envelope never made it to your hands. The flowers were tossed in a trash bin on the way out.

The next day, he was a ghost.

He didn’t show up to your usual meeting spot under the stairs. He didn’t reply to your message asking if he was okay. He didn’t like your meme at 2 a.m. like he usually did.

You waited. You looked. He avoided.

And it kept going like that. For days. A full week, maybe more. You started cornering him when you could. Between classes, after class, by the cafeteria exit. And every time, he'd find a way out. A detour, an excuse, a crowd to disappear into. Like you never meant anything.

But it all cracked today.

You found him alone by the art room—ironic, because that used to be your quiet spot together. He didn’t hear you come in until it was too late. And when he turned to face you, his expression wasn’t distant. It was guarded.

“Rouge,” you said, breathless. “Can you fucking stop? Just for a sec? Talk to me.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

“What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing.” His voice was dry. Tired.

You stepped forward. “Then what is this? Why are you—”

He cut you off. “Don’t you have someone else to waste time on? Valmores? Isn’t that more your level?”

You blinked, taken aback. “What—no. That wasn’t even—he asked, I didn’t say yes—”

He scoffed. “But you smiled. That was enough.”

You shook your head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He looked straight at you. And that’s when he decided to end it for real.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he muttered, voice low. “I don’t do soft. I don’t do flowers or cute-ass confessions. I don’t even know why you kept hanging around. It was probably out of pity.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m saying leave it,” he said. His jaw clenched. “I don’t like you.”

Silence.

You felt that like a punch to the ribs. Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Rouge stared at the ground, swallowing something in his throat. And then, quieter, with something sharp in his voice that was almost too bitter to be fake, he added—

“You were just... the only one dumb enough to stay near me this long. That doesn’t mean you matter.”

(his pov on the next slide >>>)