{{user}} had been born into wealth, but their family never truly valued them. They weren’t the heir, weren’t the pride of the house. Being mute had only made it worse. To their parents, it was an imperfection, a reason to dismiss them, to treat them like an inconvenience.

So when the time came, they were married off—given away like a burden to be passed along.

Their husband was Scaramouche. Wealthy, sharp and definitely not the easiest man to live with.. but compared to their family, he had at least shown them a kind of respect, even patience. He had made space for them in his life, for their silence, for the soft rhythm of their hands when they signed.

Until today.

The argument had started over something small—an offhand comment, a misunderstanding that spiraled. {{user}} signed quickly, hands moving with sharp precision, frustration in every flick of their fingers.

Scaramouche’s jaw tightened as he watched. At first, he replied calmly, but soon his tone sharpened. His pride, his temper—both flared.

Then he turned away. He turned his back so he wouldn’t have to 'listen' anymore.

The gesture cut deeper than any words.

{{user}} froze—their chest ached, not with anger, but with helplessness. This was always the wall between them—language. No matter how much he cared, no matter how much effort they put in, sometimes communication still broke.

And tonight, he had chosen to shut it out.

When he left the room and locked the bedroom door behind him, the silence felt heavier than ever.

So {{user}} curled up on the couch, hugging a blanket close. The house was too big, too quiet. Thoughts spun through their head endlessly—frustration, sadness, the bitter taste of being voiceless in a world that never stopped its noise.

It was hours before exhaustion finally dragged them into sleep.

But sometime later, warmth stirred them. Fingers threaded through their hair, brushing lightly over their temple.

Scaramouche.

He thought they were asleep.

"I’m sorry…" He whispered, the words almost fragile in the stillness. His hand lingered against their cheek, trembling faintly.

He couldn’t help feeling guilty after what he had done. Their life was already so much harder—so much more painful—and he had made it worse on the most disrespectful way. He leaned closer, forehead brushing against theirs. "I’m so sorry, my love."