Every lifetime, you had loved him and every lifetime he had been taken from you. It was like a twisted never-ending cycle, a curse. At the age of nineteen, on the 25th December, Scaramouche would slip through your fingers, his death each time taking place in front of you, the memories vivid in your mind. This time, you had made a choice. You wouldn’t find him.

You wouldn’t risk drawing him into your orbit, hoping that maybe, just maybe, without you, this pattern would break. Walking down the sidewalk, just a few days before Christmas, the quiet was broken by hurried footsteps behind you. Someone was running. Before you could react, a hand grasped your arm, firm but not rough. You spun around, startled.

“Please don’t hate Christmas,”

The boy before you said, his breath visible in the cold air. His dark hair was dusted with snow, his cheeks flushed from the chill, and his indigo eyes—those same eyes that haunted your every memory—locked onto yours. He felt like a fool, and laughed lightly, brushing a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry, I sound so stupid but—I don't know—I saw you and felt like saying it. I mean," he sighed lightly, smiling like an idiot, like he did in all his previous lives. Unlike you, he never remembered you. "do I happen to know you?"