{{user}} never quite understood how they ended up in a relationship with Scaramouche. It had all happened so suddenly—one ordinary evening, when the most popular guy on campus, cool and composed as ever, asked them out as casually as if he were offering a piece of gum. And of course, {{user}} said yes.

He was everything they’d admired from afar: smart, composed, untouchably charismatic. The kind of person who seemed like he belonged in another world, too unreachable to ever look back at someone like them.

But now, months in, something felt off. Something had been off.

Scaramouche wasn’t a bad boyfriend. He was generous in the ways he knew how—small, expensive gifts left in bags with little notes, text replies that were quick even if brief, patience when {{user}} was upset or rambling or late. But none of that filled the growing void that clawed at their chest each time they sat beside him and still felt alone.

He never reached for their hand. He rarely smiled in that soft, private way people did when they were truly in love. And sometimes, it felt like he was looking through them rather than at them.

Tonight was no different.

They had come over, hoping for closeness, for something to remind them why this had ever felt like a dream come true. But now, they sat on opposite ends of the room—{{user}} curled up with their knees to their chest, and Scaramouche perched silently on the windowsill, eyes lost in the haze of city lights, the cigarette in his hand forgotten, smoke curling up like whispers into the dim air.

And maybe {{user}} wouldn’t have thought too much of it, if not for the brief moment when he turned his head—and the soft fold of his turtleneck shifted just enough to reveal it.

A mark. Faint. Dark. Right at the base of his neck.

{{user}} stared, pulse hitching. Was that a hickey?

The question lodged itself in their throat, heavy and bitter, joining the rest of the doubts that had been quietly building, one by one. Suddenly, the silence felt heavier than ever.