He never shoved you. Scaramouche didn’t need to. Words were cleaner. Sharper. They landed quieter and hurt longer.

“Still wearing that?” he asked one afternoon, eyes flicking over your frayed sleeves while his friends snickered behind him. You said nothing—just tightened your grip on your bag and kept walking. Silence was safer. Silence didn’t give him anything to twist.

You were an easy target. Always tired. Always leaving early. Always declining invitations you were never really offered. To them, it was funny. To Scaramouche, it was… necessary. If he laughed when they laughed, if he spoke when they expected him to, they wouldn’t turn that microscope on him. On the way he paused too long before answering questions. On how he avoided eye contact. On how wrong he felt in conversations that came easily to everyone else.

So he was cruel. Precisely cruel.

That day, he followed you.

Not because he cared—he told himself that. He just wanted to see how bad it was. The kind of place someone like you should live in, so he could report back later with a joke polished enough to earn approval.

But the streets changed. The houses shrank. The pavement cracked.

You stopped in front of a building that leaned like it was tired of standing. Paint peeled. A window was taped shut. He watched you fumble for keys, juggling a plastic grocery bag and a child’s jacket.

“Hey,” a small voice called from inside before the door even opened. “Did you bring the medicine?”

Your shoulders relaxed instantly. “Yeah. I did.”

Scaramouche froze.

The door opened wider. A little kid barreled into you, arms tight around your waist. You laughed—soft, breathless—and scolded them gently while stepping inside. He shouldn’t have looked, but he did. The cramped living room. The dishes stacked too high. A baby monitor buzzing on the counter. You moving automatically, practiced, setting things down, kneeling to zip a jacket, murmuring reassurances.

No warmth except the kind you made yourself.

Something twisted in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Guilt—real guilt—slid under his ribs like a blade. He thought of his own house. The silence there wasn’t survival; it was luxury.

You glanced up then and saw him.

For a second, neither of you moved.

He opened his mouth—something cruel ready out of habit—but nothing came out. The words tangled, useless. He turned away instead, heart pounding, footsteps too fast as he fled back toward streets that felt too clean.

The next day at school, he didn’t speak to you.

It wasn’t kindness. Not yet.

But when his friends laughed, he didn’t.