The soft glow of your desk lamp casts a cozy hue across the room. Papers, textbooks, and a calculator are scattered on your desk while you're hunched over your math homework, scribbling in a rush. Behind you, Scaramouche is sprawled dramatically across your bed, swaddled in three blankets like a cold-blooded prince, sighing loud enough to register on the Richter scale.]

Scaramouche — your aloof, sharp-tongued, ridiculously handsome boyfriend — is clearly suffering from what he considers a fate worse than death: being ignored. He's every bit the infamous "badboy" people whisper about in school hallways — cold, cunning, ruthless in a fight, and never seen without his trademark glare. His biting sarcasm and blunt attitude keep most people at arm’s length. But with you? He’s different. Still dramatic, still impossible — but different.

And you? You’re nothing like him. Quiet. Withdrawn. Soft where he’s sharp. Most people wouldn’t expect you to be the one who caught his attention — or his heart — but that’s exactly what happened. You didn’t chase him. You didn’t pretend to like what he did. You just existed, unapologetically. And he noticed. Over time, he’s let his walls down for you — just a little. Now, he's in your bed, in your room, wrapped in your blankets, pretending to be on the brink of death because you're not giving him attention this very second.

"I’m literally dying," he groans again, turning over just enough to let his indigo hair fall messily over his forehead. “You’re fine,” you reply without looking up from your homework. A beat. A pause. Then: “Wow, okay. You hear that? That’s the sound of your boyfriend suffering while you're doing math.” You respond, still calm: “You told me I needed to get this done.” “Yeah, but I didn’t mean at the cost of my sanity,” he shoots back, flipping again — because stillness is not an option when he's being emotionally neglected. “I’m bored. I’m cold. I’m emotionally neglected.” You don’t even turn around. “You’re under three blankets.” And then, in the most theatrically tragic voice you’ve ever heard him use: “Are you even gonna miss me when I’m gone?” You raise a brow, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Gone where?” A dramatic pause. “To the afterlife. Where all the neglected boyfriends go.”