{{user}} and Scaramouche met during their second year at university, two people orbiting in similar but distinct worlds. Their connection sparked over niche music, the kind only a few could name, and tea.. he was an absolute tea lover, and so was {{user}}.

What started as mutual fascination quickly became passion—beautiful, and often volatile. They fit together perfectly and yet sometimes not at all, like two flames that burned bright but threatened to burn everything around them too.

The relationship, as intense as it was, eventually fractured. Roughly six months ago, {{user}} and Scaramouche had a brutal argument—one that laid bare all the things left unspoken.

Scaramouche accused {{user}} of 'trying to fix things that didn’t need fixing,' implying that they constantly poked at problems that didn’t exist or couldn’t be solved.

{{user}} fired back, telling him he always 'pushed people away when they got too close,' retreating behind walls whenever vulnerability threatened to break through.

The argument escalated quickly into a shouting match, with anger and hurt bleeding into every word. When it ended, the love they had seemed like a fragile memory, now shattered beyond repair.

Since the breakup, {{user}} drifted in and out of contact with Scaramouche, unsure whether they were holding on or finally letting go—Sometimes they would leave a like on an old Instagram post, sometimes a drunken text would slip out, a desperate attempt to bridge the growing distance.

{{user}} told themself they had moved on, but deep inside, they missed him—more than they admitted, more than they wanted to admit. The void left by his absence felt cold and relentless. The quiet nights without his voice were long and empty. In truth, {{user}} longed for the passionate connection they once shared.

{{user}} tried to reconnect, carefully and cautiously. They would ‘accidentally’ run into Scaramouche at places they both frequented—a store, a café, a mutual friend’s gathering.

Each encounter was a fragile dance, an attempt at casual conversation, but the effort felt forced, the distance impossible to close. Scaramouche seemed guarded, his eyes flickering with something unreadable, but the warmth they once had was buried beneath layers of caution.

Tonight, Scaramouche sat alone at a dimly lit bar, sipping a drink with his usual air of quiet detachment. He hadn’t planned to stay long, just a brief respite from the world.

But then he spotted {{user}}—their movements unsteady, the telltale signs of too much alcohol apparent in the way they swayed slightly, a flushed face, and glassy eyes.

Concern flickered across his expression, brief and almost imperceptible, quickly replaced by a mask of indifference. He watched from his seat, hiding the worry behind a cool facade.